!\ 
.IBRARY 
JNI/ERSITY  OF 
CAIIPORNIA       J 


OUR    MR.   WRENN 


OUR  MR.  WRENN 

THE  ROMANTIC  ADVENTURES 
OF  A  GENTLE  MAN 


BY 

SINCLAIR  LEWIS 


AUTHOR  OF 

MAIN  STREET, 
BABBITT,  ETC. 


GROSSET    &    DUNLAP 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 

Made  in  the  United  Statei  of  America 


LOAN  STACK 


COPYRIGHT.   1B14.   BY  HARPER  ft   BROTHERS 

PRINTED   II*    THE    UNITED    STATES    OF    AMERICA 

PUBLISHED     FEBRUARY.     1914 


TO 

GRACE  LIVINGSTONE  HEGGER 


518 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGZ 

I.  MR.  WRENN  is  LONELY i 

II.  HE  WALKS  WITH  Miss  THERESA 18 

III.  HE  STARTS  FOR  THE  LAND  OF  ELSEWHERE    .     .  38 

IV.  HE    BECOMES   THE   GREAT   LlTTLE    BlLL   WRENN  .  49 

V.  HE  FINDS  MUCH  QUAINT  ENGLISH  FLAVOR   .    .  60 

VI.  HE  is  AN  ORPHAN 68 

VII.  HE  MEETS  A  TEMPERAMENT 80 

VIII.  HE  TIFFINS 96 

IX.  HE  ENCOUNTERS  THE  INTELLECTUALS    ....  109 

X.  HE  GOES  A-GiPSYiNG 124 

XL        HE  BUYS  AN  ORANGE  TIE 134 

XII.  HE  DISCOVERS  AMERICA       146 

XIII.  HE  is  "OuR  MR.  WRENN" 164 

XIV.  HE  ENTERS  SOCIETY 179 

XV.  HE  STUDIES  FIVE  HUNDRED,  SAVOIR  FAIRE,  AND 

LOTSA-SNAP  OFFICE  MOTTOES 191 

XVI.  HE   BECOMES  MILDLY  RELIGIOUS  AND  HIGHLY 

LITERARY 203 

XVII.  HE  is  BLOWN  BY  THE  WHIRLWIND 223 

XVIII.  AND  FOLLOWS  A  WANDERING  FLAME  THROUGH 

PERILOUS  SEAS 241 

XIX.  To  A  HAPPY  SHORE 250 


OUR   MR.  WRENN 


MR.    WRENN   IS   LONELY 

THE  ticket-taker  of  the  Nickelorion  Moving-Picture 
Show  is  a  public  personage,  who  stands  out  on 
Fourteenth  Street,  New  York,  wearing  a  gorgeous  light- 
blue  coat  of  numerous  brass  buttons.  He  nods  to  all  the 
patrons,  and  his  nod  is  the  most  cordial  in  town.  Mr. 
Wrenn  used  to  trot  down  to  Fourteenth  Street,  passing 
ever  so  many  other  shows,  just  to  get  that  cordial  nod, 
because  he  had  a  lonely  furnished  room  for  evenings,  and 
for  daytime  a  tedious  job  that  always  made  his  head 
stuffy. 

He  stands  out  in  the  correspondence  of  the  Souvenir 
and  Art  Novelty  Company  as  "Our  Mr.  Wrenn,"  who 
would  be  writing  you  directly  and  explaining  everything 
most  satisfactorily.  At  thirty-four  Mr.  Wrenn  was  the 
sales-entry  clerk  of  the  Souvenir  Company.  He  was 
always  bending  over  bills  and  columns  of  figures  at  a  desk 
behind  the  stock-room.  He  was  a  meek  little  bachelor — a 
person  of  inconspicuous  blue  ready-made  suits,  and  a 
small  unsuccessful  mustache. 

To-day — historians  have  established  the  date  as  April 
9,  1910 — there  had  been  some  confusing  mixed  orders 
from  the  Wisconsin  retailers,  and  Mr.  Wrenn  had  been 


OU.R    MR.    WRENN 

"called  down"  by  the  office  manager,  Mr.  Mortimer  R. 
Guilfogle.  He  needed  the  friendly  nod  of  the  Nickelorion 
ticket-taker.  He  found  Fourteenth  Street,  after  office 
hours,  swept  by  a  dusty  wind  that  whisked  the  skirts  of 
countless  plump  Jewish  girls,  whose  V-necked  blouses 
showed  soft  throats  of  a  warm  brown.  Under  the  Elevated 
station  he  secretly  made  believe  that  he  was  in  Paris,  for 
here  beautiful  Italian  boys  swayed  with  trays  of  violets; 
a  tramp  displayed  crimson  mechanical  rabbits,  which 
squeaked,  on  silvery  leading-strings;  and  a  newsstand 
was  heaped  with  the  orange  and  green  and  gold  of  maga 
zine  covers. 

"Gee!"  inarticulated  Mr.  Wrenn.  "Lots  of  colors. 
Hope  I  see  foreign  stuff  like  that  in  the  moving  pictures." 

He  came  primly  up  to  the  Nickelorion,  feeling  in  his 
vest  pockets  for  a  nickel  and  peering  around  the  booth  at 
the  friendly  ticket-taker.  But  the  latter  was  thinking 
about  buying  Johnny's  pants.  Should  he  get  them  at 
the  Fourteenth  Street  Store,  or  Siegel-Cooper's,  or  over  at 
Aronson's,  near  home?  So  ruminating,  he  twiddled  his 
wheel  mechanically,  and  Mr.  Wrenn's  pasteboard  slip  was 
indifferently  received  in  the  plate-glass  gullet  of  the 
grinder  without  the  taker's  even  seeing  the  clerk's  bow 
and  smile. 

Mr.  Wrenn  trembled  into  the  door  of  the  Nickelorion. 
He  wanted  to  turn  back  and  rebuke  this  fellow,  but  was 
restrained  by  shyness.  He  had  liked  the  man's  "Fine 
evenin',  sir" — rain  or  shine — but  he  wouldn't  stand  for 
being  cut.  Wasn't  he  making  nineteen  dollars  a  week,  as 
against  the  ticket-taker's  ten  or  twelve?  He  shook  his 
head  with  the  defiance  of  a  cornered  mouse,  fussed  with 
his  mustache,  and  regarded  the  moving  pictures  gloomily. 

They  helped  him.  After  a  Selig  domestic  drama  came 
a  stirring  Vitagraph  Western  scene,  "The  Goat  of  the 
Rancho,"  which  depicted  with  much  humor  and  tumult 
the  revolt  of  a  ranch  cook,  a  Chinaman.  Mr.  Wrenn  was 
really  seeing,  not  cow-punchers  and  sage-brush,  but  him- 

2 


MR.    WRENN   IS   LONELY 

self,  defying  the  office  manager's  surliness  and  revolting 
against  the  ticket-man's  rudeness.  Now  he  was  ready 
for  the  nearly  overpowering  delight  of  travel-pictures. 
He  bounced  slightly  as  a  Gaumont  film  presented  Java. 

He  was  a  connoisseur  of  travel-pictures,  for  all  his  life 
he  had  been  planning  a  great  journey.  Though  he  had 
done  Staten  Island  and  patronized  an  excursion  to  Bound 
Brook,  neither  of  these  was  his  grand  tour.  It  was  yet  to 
be  taken.  In  Mr.  Wrenn,  apparently  fastened  to  New 
York  like  a  domestic-minded  barnacle,  lay  the  possibilities 
of  heroic  roaming.  He  knew  it.  He,  too,  like  the  man 
who  had  taken  the  Gaumont  pictures,  would  saunter 
among  dusky  Javan  natives  in  "markets  with  tiles  on  the 
roofs  and  temples  and — and — uh,well — places!"  The  scent 
of  Oriental  spices  was  in  his  broadened  nostrils  as  he  scam 
pered  out  of  the  Nickelorion,  without  a  look  at  the  ticket- 
taker,  and  headed  for  "home" — for  his  third-floor-front 
on  West  Sixteenth  Street. 

He  wanted  to  prowl  through  his  collection  of  steamship 
brochures  for  a  description  of  Java.  But,  of  course,  when 
one's  landlady  has  both  the  sciatica  and  a  case  of  Patient 
Suffering  one  stops  in  the  basement  dining-room  to  inquire 
how  she  is. 

Mrs.  Zapp  was  a  fat  landlady.  When  she  sat  down 
there  was  a  straight  line  from  her  chin  to  her  knees.  She 
was  usually  sitting  down.  When  she  moved  she  groaned, 
and  her  apparel  creaked.  She  groaned  and  creaked  from 
bed  to  breakfast,  and  ate  five  griddle-cakes,  two  helpin's 
of  scrapple,  an  egg,  some  rump  steak,  and  three  cups  of 
coffee,  slowly  and  resentfully.  She  creaked  and  groaned 
from  breakfast  to  her  rocking-chair,  and  sat  about  wonder 
ing  why  Providence  had  inflicted  upon  her  a  weak  diges 
tion.  Mr.  Wrenn  also  wondered  why,  sympathetically, 
but  Mrs.  Zapp  was  too  conscientiously  dolorous  to  be 
much  cheered  by  the  sympathy  of  a  nigger-lovin'  Yankee, 
who  couldn't  appreciate  the  subtle  sorrows  of  a  Zapp.  of 
Zapp's  Bog,  allied  to  all  the  First  Families  of  Virginia. 

3 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

>Mr.  Wrenn  did  nothing  more  presumptuous  than  sit 
still,  in  the  stuffy  furniture-crowded  basement  room, 
which  smelled  of  dead  food  and  deader  pride  in  a  race  that 
had  never  existed.  He  sat  still  because  the  chair  was 
broken.  It  had  been  broken  now  for  four  years. 

For  the  hundred  and  twenty-ninth  time  in  those  years 
Mrs.  Zapp  said,  in  her  rich  corruption  of  Southern  negro 
dialect,  which  can  only  be  indicated  here,  "Ah  been  mean 
ing  to  get  that  chair  mended,  Mist'  Wrenn." 

He  looked  gratified  and  gazed  upon  the  crayon  enlarge 
ments  of  Lee  Theresa,  the  older  Zapp  daughter  (who  was 
forewoman  in  a  factory),  and  of  Godiva.  Godiva  Zapp 
was  usually  called  "Goaty,"  and  many  times  a  day  was 
she  called  by  Mrs.  Zapp.  A  tamed  child  drudge  was 
Goaty,  with  adenoids,  which  Mrs.  Zapp  had  been  meanin' 
to  have  removed,  and  which  she  would  continue  to  have 
benevolent  meanin's  about  till  it  should  be  too  late,  and 
she  should  discover  that  Providence  never  would  let 
Goaty  go  to  school. 

"Yes,  Mist'  Wrenn,  Ah  told  Goaty  she  was  to  see  the 
man  about  getting  that  chair  fixed,  but  she  nev'  does 
nothing  Ah  tell  her." 

In  the  kitchen  was  the  noise  of  Goaty,  ungovernable 
Goaty,  aged  eight,  still  snivelingly  washing,  though  not 
cleaning,  the  incredible  pile  of  dinner  dishes.  With  a 
trail  of  hesitating  remarks  on  the  sadness  of  sciatica  and 
windy  evenings  Mr.  Wrenn  sneaked  forth  from  the 
august  presence  of  Mrs.  Zapp  and  mounted  to  paradise — 
his  third-floor-front. 

It  was  an  abjectly  respectable  room — the  bedspread 
patched;  no  two  pieces  of  furniture  from  the  same  family; 
half-tones  from  the  magazines  pinned  on  the  wall.  But 
on  the  old  marble  mantelpiece  lived  his  friends,  books 
from  wanderland.  Other  friends  the  room  had  rarely 
known.  It  was  hard  enough  for  Mr.  Wrenn  to  get  ac 
quainted  with  people,  anyway,  and  Mrs.  Zapp  did  not 
expect  her  gennulman  lodgers  to  entertain.  So  Mr. 

4 


MR.    WRENN    IS    LONELY 

Wrenn  had  given  up  asking  even  Charley  Carpenter,  the 
assistant  bookkeeper  at  the  Souvenir  Company,  to  call. 
That  left  him  the  books,  which  he  now  caressed  with  small 
eager  finger-tips.  He  picked  out  a  P.  &  O.  circular,  and 
hastily  left  for  fairyland. 

The  April  skies  glowed  with  benevolence  this  Saturday 
morning.  The  Metropolitan  Tower  was  singing,  bright 
ivory  tipped  with  gold,  uplifted  and  intensely  glad  of  the 
morning.  The  buildings  walling  in  Madison  Square  were 
jubilant;  the  honest  red-brick  fronts,  radiant;  the  new 
marble,  witty.  The  sparrows  in  the  middle  of  Fifth 
Avenue  were  all  talking  at  once,  scandalously  but  cleverly* 
The  polished  brass  of  limousines  threw  off  teethy  smiles. 
At  least  so  Mr.  Wrenn  fancied  as  he  whisked  up  Fifth 
Avenue,  the  skirts  of  his  small  blue  double-breasted  coat 
wagging.  He  was  going  blocks  out  of  his  way  to  the 
office;  ready  to  defy  time  and  eternity,  yes,  and  even  the 
office  manager.  He  had  awakened  with  Defiance  as  his 
bedfellow,  and  throughout  breakfast  at  the  Hustler  Dairy 
Lunch  sunshine  had  flickered  over  the  dirty  tessellated 
floor. 

He  pranced  up  to  the  Souvenir  Company's  brick  build 
ing,  on  Twenty-eighth  Street  near  Sixth  Avenue.  In  the 
office  he  chuckled  at  his  ink-well  and  the  untorn  blotters 
on  his  orderly  desk.  Though  he  sat  under  the  weary 
unnatural  brilliance  of  a  mercury-vapor  light,  he  dashed 
into  his  work,  and  was  too  keen  about  this  business  of 
living  merrily  to  be  much  flustered  by  the  bustle  of  the 
lady  buyer's  superior  "Good  morning."  Even  up  to 
ten-thirty  he  was  still  slamming  down  papers  on  his  desk. 
Just  let  any  one  try  to  stop  his  course,  his  readiness  for 
snapping  fingers  at  The  Job;  just  let  them  try  it,  that  was 
all  he  wanted! 

Then  he  was  shot  out  of  his  chair  and  four  feet  along 
the  corridor,  in  reflex  response  to  the  surly  "Bur-r-r-r-r" 
of  the  buzzer.  Mr.  Mortimer  R.  Guilfogle,  the  manager, 
2  5 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

desired  to  see  him.  He  scampered  along  the  corridor 
and  slid  decorously  through  the  manager's  doorway  into 
the  long  sun-bright  room,  ornate  with  rugs  and  souvenirs. 
Seven  Novelties  glittered  on  the  desk  alone,  including  a 
large  rococo  Shakespeare-style  glass  ink-well  containing 
cloves  and  a  small  iron  Pittsburg-style  one  containing  ink. 
Mr.  Wrenn  blinked  like  a  noon-roused  owlet  in  the  bril 
liance.  The  manager  dropped  his  fist  on  the  desk,  glared, 
smoothed  his  flowered  prairie  of  waistcoat,  and  growled, 
his  red  jowls  quivering: 

"Look  here,  Wrenn,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  The 
Bronx  Emporium  order  for  May  Day  novelties  was  filled 
twice,  they  write  me." 

"They  ordered  twice,  sir.  By  'phone,"  smiled  Mr. 
Wrenn,  in  an  agony  of  politeness. 

"They  ordered  hell,  sir!     Twice — the  same  order?" 

"Yes,  sir;     their  buyer  was  prob — 

"They  say  they've  looked  it  up.  Anyway,  they  won't 
pay  twice.  I  know  'em.  We'll  have  to  crawl  down 

graceful,  and  all  because  you I  want  to  know  why 

you  ain't  more  careful!" 

The  announcement  that  Mr.  Wrenn  twice  wriggled  his 
head,  and  once  tossed  it,  would  not  half  denote  his  wrath. 
At  last!  It  was  here — the  time  for  revolt,  when  he  was 
going  to  be  defiant.  He  had  been  careful;  old  Gogle- 
fogle  was  only  barking;  but  why  should  he  be  barked  at? 
With  his  voice  palpitating  and  his  heart  thudding  so  that 
he  felt  sick  he  declared  : 

"I'm  sure,  sir,  about  that  order.  I  looked  it  up. 
Their  buyer  was  drunk!" 

It  was  done.  And  now  would  he  be  discharged  ?  The 
manager  was  speaking: 

"  Probably.  You  looked  it  up,  eh  ?  Um !  Send  me  in 
the  two  order-records.  Well.  But,  anyway,  I  want  you  to 
be  more  careful  after  this,  Wrenn.  You're  pretty  sloppy. 
Now  get  out.  Expect  me  to  make  firms  pay  twice  for  the 
same  order  'cause  of  your  carelessness  ?" 

6 


MR.    WRENN    IS    LONELY 

Mr.  Wrenn  found  himself  outside  in  the  dark  corridor. 
The  manager  hadn't  seemed  much  impressed  by  his 
revolt. 

The  manager  wasn't.     He  called  a  stenographer  and 
dictated : 
j     "Bronx  Emporium: 

"GENTLEMEN: — Our  Mr.  Wrenn  has  again  (underline 
that  'again/  Miss  Blaustein),  again  looked  up  your  order 
for  May  Day  novelties.  As  we  wrote  before,  order  cer 
tainly  was  duplicated  by  'phone.  Our  Mr.  Wrenn  is 
thoroughly  reliable,  and  we  have  his  records  of  these  two 
orders.  We  shall  therefore  have  to  push  collection  on 
both " 

After  all,  Mr.  Wrenn  was  thinking,  the  'crafty  man 
ager  might  be  merely  concealing  his  hand.  Perhaps  he 
had  understood  the  defiance.  That  gladdened  him  till 
after  lunch.  But  at  three,  when  his  head  was  again 
foggy  with  work  and  he  had  forgotten  whether  there  was 
still  April  anywhere,  he  began  to  dread  what  the  manager 
might  do  to  him.  Suppose  he  lost  his  job;  The  Job! 
He  worked  unnecessarily  late,  hoping  that  the  manager 
would  learn  of  it.  As  he  wavered  home,  drunk  with 
weariness,  his  fear  of  losing  The  Job  was  almost  equal  to 
his  desire  to  resign  from  The  Job. 

He  had  worked  so  late  that  when  he  awoke  on  Sunday 
morning  he  was  still  in  a  whirl  of  figures.  As  he  went  out 
to  his  breakfast  of  coffee  and  whisked  wheat  at  the 
Hustler  Lunch  the  lines  between  the  blocks  of  the  cement 
walk,  radiant  in  a  white  flare  of  sunshine,  irritatingly  re 
called  the  cross-lines  of  order-lists,  with  the  narrow  cement 
blocks  at  the  curb  standing  for  unfilled  column-headings. 
Even  the  ridges  of  the  Hustler  Lunch's  imitation  steel 
ceiling,  running  in  parallel  lines,  jeered  down  at  him  that 
he  was  a  prosaic  man  whose  path  was  a  ruler. 

He  went  clear  up  to  the  branch  post-office  after  break 
fast  to  get  the  Sunday  mail,  but  the  mail  was  a  disap- 

7 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

pointment.  He  was  awaiting  a  wonderful  fully  illustrated 
guide  to  the  Land  of  the  Midnight  Sun,  a  suggestion  of 
possible  and  coyly  improbable  trips,  whereas  he  got  only  a 
letter  from  his  oldest  acquaintance — Cousin  John,  of 
Parthenon,  New  York,  the  boy-who-comes-to-play  of  Mr. 
Wrenn's  back-yard  days  in  Parthenon.  Without  opening 
the  letter  Mr.  Wrenn  tucked  it  into  his  inside  coat  pocket, 
threw  away  his  toothpick,  and  turned  to  Sunday  wayfaring. 

He  jogged  down  Twenty-third  Street  to  the  North 
River  ferries  afoot.  Trolleys  took  money,  and  of  course 
one  saves  up  for  future  great  traveling.  Over  him  the 
April  clouds  were  fetterless  vagabonds  whose  gaiety  made 
him  shrug  with  excitement  and  take  a  curb  with  a  frisk 
as  gambolsome  as  a  Central  Park  lamb.  There  was  no 
hint  of  sales-lists  in  the  clouds,  at  least.  And  with  them 
Mr.  Wrenn's  soul  swept  along,  while  his  half-soled  Cum- 
Fee-Best  $3.80  shoes  were  ambling  past  warehouses. 
Only  once  did  he  condescend  to  being  really  on  Twenty- 
third  Street.  At  the  Ninth  Avenue  corner,  under  the 
grimy  Elevated,  he  sighted  two  blocks  down  to  the 
General  Theological  Seminary's  brick  Gothic  and  found  in 
a  pointed  doorway  suggestions  of  alien  beauty. 

But  his  real  object  was  to  loll  on  a  West  and  South 
Railroad  in  luxury,  and  go  sailing  out  into  the  foam  and 
perilous  seas  of  North  River.  He  passed  through  the 
smoking-cabin.  He  didn't  smoke — the  habit  used  up 
travel-money.  Once  seated  on  the  upper  deck,  he  knew 
that  at  last  he  was  outward-bound  on  a  liner.  True,  there 
was  no  great  motion,  but  Mr.  Wrenn  was  inclined  to  let 
realism  off  easily  in  this  feature  of  his  voyage.  At  least 
there  were  undoubted  life-preservers  in  the  white  racks 
overhead;  and  everywhere  the  world,  to  his  certain  wit 
nessing,  was  turned  to  crusading,  to  setting  forth  in  great 
ships  as  if  it  were  again  in  the  brisk  morning  of  history 
when  the  joy  of  adventure  possessed  the  Argonauts. 

He  wasn't  excited  over  the  liners  they  passed.  He  was 
so  experienced  in  all  of  travel,  save  the  traveling,  as  to 

8 


MR.    WRENN   IS   LONELY 

have  gained  a  calm  interested  knowledge.  He  knew  the 
Campagnia  three  docks  away,  and  explained  to  a  Harlem 
grocer  her  fine  points,  speaking  earnestly  of  stacks  and 
sticks,  tonnage  and  knots. 

Not  excited,  but — where  couldn't  he  go  if  he  were  pulling 
out  for  Arcady  on  the  Campagnia!  Gee!  What  were 
even  the  building-block  towers  of  the  Metropolitan  and 
Singer  buildings  and  the  Times' s  cream- stick  compared 
with  some  old  shrine  in  a  cathedral  close  that  was  misted 
with  centuries! 

All  this  he  felt  and  hummed  to  himself,  though  not  in 
words.  He  had  never  heard  of  Arcady,  though  for  many 
years  he  had  been  a  citizen  of  that  demesne. 

Sure,  he  declared  to  himself,  he  was  on  the  liner  now; 
he  was  sliding  up  the  muddy  Mersey  (see  the  W.  S. 
Travel  Notes  for  the  source  of  his  visions) ;  he  was  off  to 
St.  George's  Square  for  an  organ-recital  (see  the  English 
Baedeker);  then  an  express  for  London  and Gee! 

The  ferryboat  was  entering  her  slip.  Mr.  Wrenn 
trotted  toward  the  bow  to  thrill  over  the  bump  of  the 
boat's  snub  nose  against  the  lofty  swaying  piles  and  the 
swash  of  the  brown  waves  heaped  before  her  as  she 
sidled  into  place.  He  was  carried  by  the  herd  on  into  the 
station. 

He  did  not  notice  the  individual  people  in  his  exultation 
as  he  heard  the  great  chords  of  the  station's  paean.  The 
vast  roof  roared  as  the  iron  coursers  stamped  titanic  hoofs 
of  scorn  at  the  little  stay-at-home. 

That  is  a  washed-out  hint  of  how  the  poets  might 
describe  Mr.  Wrenn's  passion.  What  he  said  was  "Gee!" 

He  strolled  by  the  lists  of  destinations  hung  on  the 
track  gates.  Chicago  (the  plains!  the  Rockies!  sunset 
over  mining-camps!),  Washington,  and  the  magic  South 
land — thither  the  iron  horses  would  be  galloping,  their 
swarthy  smoke  manes  whipped  back  by  the  whirlwind, 
pounding  out  with  clamorous  strong  hoofs  their  sixty 
miles  an  hour.  Very  well.  In  time  he  also  would  mount 

9 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

upon  the  iron  coursers  and  charge  upon  Chicago  and  the 
Southland;  just  as  soon  as  he  got  ready. 

Then  he  headed  for  Cortlandt  Street;  for  Long  Island 
City;  finally,  the  Navy  Yard.  Along  his  way  were  the 
docks  of  the  tramp  steamers  where  he  might  ship  as 
steward  in  the  all-promising  Sometime.  He  had  never 
done  anything  so  reckless  as  actually  to  ask  a  skipper  for 
the  chance  to  go  a-sailing,  but  he  had  once  gone  into  a 
mission  society's  free  shipping-office  on  West  Street  where 
a  disapproving  elder  had  grumped  at  him,  "Are  you  a 
sailor?  No?  Can't  do  anything  for  you,  my  friend. 
Are  you  saved  ?"  He  wasn't  going  to  risk  another  horror 
like  that,  yet  when  the  golden  morning  of  Sometime 
dawned  he  certainly  was  going  to  go  cruising  off  to  palm- 
bordered  lagoons. 

As  he  walked  through  Long  Island  City  he  contrived 
conversations  with  the  sailors  he  passed.  It  would  have 
surprised  a  Norwegian  bos'un's  mate  to  learn  that  he 
was  really  a  gun-runner,  and  that,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he 
was  now  telling  yarns  of  the  Spanish  Main  to  the  man  who 
slid  deprecatingly  by  him. 

Mr.  Wrenn  envied  the  jackies  on  the  training-ship  and 
carelessly  went  to  sea  as  the  President's  guest  in  the 
admiral's  barge  and  was  frightened  by  the  stare  of  a 
sauntering  shop-girl  and  arrived  home  before  dusk,  to 
Mrs.  Zapp's  straitened  approval. 

Dusk  made  incantations  in  his  third-floor-front.  Pleas 
antly  fagged  in  those  slight  neat  legs,  after  his  walk,  Mr. 
Wrenn  sat  in  the  wicker  rocker  by  the  window,  patting  his 
scrubby  tan  mustache  and  reviewing  the  day's  wandering. 
When  the  gas  was  lighted  he  yearned  over  pictures  in  a 
geographical  magazine  for  a  happy  hour,  then  yawned 
to  himself,  "  Well-1-1,  Willum,  guess  it's  time  to  crawl  into 
the  downy." 

He  undressed  and  smoothed  his  ready-made  suit  on  the 
rocking-chair  back.  Sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  bed,  quaint 
in  his  cotton  night-gown,  like  a  rare  little  bird  of  dull 

10 


MR.    WRENN    IS    LONELY 

plumage,  he  rubbed  his  head  sleepily.  Um-m-m-m-m ! 
How  tired  he  was !  He  went  to  open  the  window.  Then 
his  tamed  heart  leaped  into  a  waltz,  and  he  forgot  third- 
floor-fronts  and  sleepiness. 

Through  the  window  came  the  chorus  of  fog-horns  on 
North  River.  "Boom-m-m!"  That  must  be  a  giant 
liner,  battling  up  through  the  fog.  (It  was  a  ferry.)  A 
liner!  She'd  be  roaring  just  like  that  if  she  were  off  the 
Banks!  If  he  were  only  off  the  Banks!  "Toot!  Toot!" 
That  was  a  tug.  "Whawn-n-n!"  Another  liner.  The 
tumultuous  chorus  repeated  to  him  all  the  adventures  of 
the  day. 

He  dropped  upon  the  bed  again  and  stared  absently  at 
his  clothes.  Out  of  the  inside  coat  pocket  stuck  the  un 
opened  letter  from  Cousin  John. 

He  read  a  paragraph  of  it.  He  sprang  from  the  bed 
and  danced  a  tarantella,  pranced  in  his  cottony  night 
gown  like  a  drunken  Yaqui.  The  letter  announced  that 
the  flinty  farm  at  Parthenon,  left  to  Mr.  Wrenn  by  his 
father,  had  been  sold.  Its  location  on  a  river  bluff  had 
made  it  valuable  to  the  Parthenon  Chautauqua  Asso 
ciation.  There  was  now  to  his  credit  in  the  Parthenon 
National  Bank  nine  hundred  and  forty  dollars! 

He  was  wealthy,  then.  He  had  enough  to  stalk  up  and 
down  the  earth  for  many  venturesome  (but  economical) 
months,  till  he  should  learn  the  trade  of  wandering,  and 
its  mysterious  trick  of  living  without  a  job  or  a  salary. 

He  crushed  his  pillow  with  burrowing  head  and  sobbed 
excitedly,  with  a  terrible  stomach  -  sinking  and  a  chill 
shaking.  Then  he  laughed  and  wanted  to — but  didn't — • 
rush  into  the  adjacent  hall  room  and  tell  the  total  stranger 
there  of  this  world-changing  news.  He  listened  in  the 
hall  to  learn  whether  the  Zapps  were  up,  but  heard  noth 
ing;  returned  and  cantered  up  and  down,  gloating  on  a 
map  of  the  world. 

"Gee!  It's  happened.  I  could  travel  all  the  time.  I 
guess  I  won't  be — very  much — afraid  of  wrecks  and 

ii 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

stuff.  .  .  .  Things  like  that.  .  .  .  Gee!  If  I  don't  get  to  bed 
I'll  be  late  at  the  office  in  the  morning!" 

Mr.  Wrenn  lay  awake  till  three  o'clock.  Monday 
morning  he  felt  rather  ashamed  of  having  done  so  eccen 
tric  a  thing.  But  he  got  to  the  office  on  time.  He  was 
worried  with  the  cares  of  wealth,  with  having  to  decide 
when  to  leave  for  his  world-wanderings,  but  he  was  also 
very  much  aware  that  office  managers  are  disagreeable 
if  one  isn't  on  time.  All  morning  he  did  nothing  more 
reckless  than  balance  his  new  fortune,  plus  his  savings, 
against  steamship  fares  on  a  waste  half-sheet  of  paper. 

The  noon-hour  was  not  The  Job's,  but  his,  for  explora 
tion  of  the  parlous  lands  of  romance  that  lie  hard  by 
Twenty-eighth  Street  and  Sixth  Avenue.  But  he  had  to 
go  out  to  lunch  with  Charley  Carpenter,  the  assistant 
bookkeeper,  that  he  might  tell  the  news.  As  for  Charley, 
he  needed  frequently  to  have  a  confidant  who  knew  per 
sonally  the  tyrannous  ways  of  the  office  manager,  Mr. 
Guilfogle. 

Mr.  Wrenn  and  Charley  chose  (that  is  to  say,  Charley 
chose)  2  table  at  Driibel's  Eating  House.  Mr.  Wrenn 
timidly  hinted,  "I've  got  some  big  news  to  tell  you." 

But  Charley  interrupted,  "Say,  did  you  hear  old 
Goglefogle  light  into  me  this  morning?  I  won't  stand 
for  it.  Say,  did  you  hear  him — the  old " 

"What  was  the  trouble,  Charley?" 

"Trouble?  Nothing  was  the  trouble.  Except  with 
old  Goglefogle.  I  made  one  little  break  in  my  accounts. 
Why,  if  old  Gogie  had  to  keep  track  of  seventy-'leven 
accounts  and  watch  every  single  last  movement  of  a  fool 
girl  that  can't  even  run  the  adding-machine,  why,  he'd  get 
green  around  the  gills.  He'd  never  do  anything  but  make 
mistakes!  Well,  I  guess  the  old  codger  must  have  had  a 
bum  breakfast  this  morning.  Wanted  some  exercise  to 
digest  it.  Me,  I  was  the  exercise — I  was  the  goat.  He 
calls  me  in,  and  he  calls  me  down,  and  me — well,  just  lemme 
tell  you,  Wrenn,  I  calls  his  bluff!" 

12 


MR.    WRENN   IS   LONELY 

Charley  Carpenter  stopped  his  rapid  tirade,  delivered 
with  quick  head-shakes  like  those  of  palsy,  to  raise  his 
smelly  cigarette  to  his  mouth.  Midway  in  this  slow 
gesture  the  memory  of  his  wrongs  again  overpowered  him. 
He  flung  his  right  hand  back  on  the  table,  scattering 
cigarette  ashes,  jerked  back  his  head  with  the  irritated 
patience  of  a  nervous  martyr,  then  waved  both  hands 
about  spasmodically,  while  he  snarled,  with  his  cheaply 
handsome  smooth  face  more  flushed  than  usual: 

"Sure!  You  can  just  bet  your  bottom  dollar  I  let  him 
see  from  the  way  I  looked  at  him  that  I  wasn't  going  to 
stand  for  no  more  monkey  business.  You  bet  I  did !  .  .  . 
Fll  fix  him,  I  will.  You  just  watch  me.  (Hey,  Driibel, 
got  any  lemon  merang?  Bring  me  a  hunk,  will  yuh?) 
Why,  Wrenn,  that  cross-eyed  double-jointed  fat  old  slob, 

Fll  slam  him  in  the  slats  so  hard  some  day I  will, 

you  just  watch  my  smoke.  If  it  wasn't  for  that  messy 

wife  of  mine I  ought  to  desert  her,  and  I  will  some 

day,  and " 

"Yuh."  Mr.  Wrenn  was  curt  for  a  second. ...  "I  know 
how  it  is,  Charley.  But  you'll  get  over  it,  honest  you 
will.  Say,  I've  got  some  news.  Some  land  that  my 
Dad  left  me  has  sold  for  nearly  a  thousand  plunks.  By 
the  way,  this  lunch  is  on  me.  Let  me  pay  for  it,  Charley." 

Charley  promised  to  let  him  pay,  quite  readily.  And, 
expanding,  said: 

"Great,  Wrenn!  Great!  Lemme  congratulate  you. 
Don't  know  anybody  I'd  rather  've  had  this  happen  to. 
You're  a  meek  little  baa-lamb,  but  you've  got  lots  of 
stuff  in  you,  old  Wrennski.  Oh  say,  by  the  wray,  could 
you  let  me  have  fifty  cents  till  Saturday?  Thanks.  I'll 
pay  it  back  sure.  By  golly!  you're  the  only  man  around 
the  office  that  'predates  what  a  double  duck-lined  old 
fiend  old  Goglefogle  is,  the  old " 

"Aw,  gee,  Charley,  I  wish  you  wouldn't  jump  on 
Guilfogle  so  hard.  He's  always  treated  me  square." 

"Gogie — square?  Yuh,  he's  square  just  like  a  hoop. 

13 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

You  know  it,  too,  Wrenn.  Now  that  you've  got  enough 
money  so's  you  don't  need  to  be  scared  about  the  job 
you'll  realize  it,  and  you'll  want  to  soak  him,  same's  I  do. 
Say!"  The  impulse  of  a  great  idea  made  him  gleefully 
shake  his  fist  sidewise.  "Say!  Why  don't  you  soak  him ? 
They  bank  on  you  at  the  Souvenir  Company.  Darn* 
sight  more  than  you  realize,  lemme  tell  you.  Why,  you 
do  about  half  the  stock-keeper's  work  'sides  your  own. 
Tell  you  what  you  do.  You  go  to  old  Goglefogle  and  tell 
him  you  want  a  raise  to  twenty-five,  and  want  it  right  now. 
Yes,  by  golly,  thirty!  You're  worth  that,  or  pretty  darn* 
near  it,  but  'course  old  Goglefogle  '11  never  give  it  to  you. 
He'll  threaten  to  fire  you  if  you  say  a  thing  more  about  it. 
You  can  tell  him  to  go  ahead,  and  then  where'll  he  be? 
Guess  that  '11  call  his  bluff  some!" 

"Yes,  but,  Charley,  then  if  Guilfogle  feels  he  can't  pay 
me  that  much — you  know  he's  responsible  to  the  directors; 
he  can't  do  everything  he  wants  to — why,  he'll  just  have 
to  fire  me,  after  I've  talked  to  him  like  that,  whether 
he  wants  to  or  not.  And  that  'd  leave  us  —  that  'd 
leave  them  —  without  a  sales  clerk,  right  in  the  busy 
season." 

"Why,  sure,  Wrenn;  that's  what  we  want  to  do.  If 
you  go  it  'd  leave  'em  without  just  about  two  men.  Bother 
'em  like  the  deuce.  It  'd  bother  Mr.  Mortimer  X.  Y. 
Guglefugle  most  of  all,  thank  the  Lord.  He  wouldn't 
know  where  he  was  at — trying  to  break  in  a  man  right  in 
the  busy  season.  Here's  your  chance.  Come  on,  kid; 
don't  pass  it  up." 

"Oh  gee,  Charley,  I  can't  do  that.  You  wouldn't  want 
me  to  try  to  hurt  the  Souvenir  Company  after  being  there 
for — lemme  see,  it  must  be  seven  years." 

"Well,  maybe  you  like  to  get  your  cute  little  nose 
rubbed  on  the  grindstone!  I  suppose  you'd  like  to  stay 
on  at  nineteen  per  for  the  rest  of  your  life." 

"Aw,  Charley,  don't  get  sore;  please  don't!  I'd  like 
to  get  off,  all  right — like  to  go  traveling,  and  stuff  like  that. 


MR.    WRENN    IS    LONELY 

Gee!  I'd  like  to  wander  round.  But  I  can't  cut  out  right 
in  the  bus — 

"But  can't  you  see,  you  poor  nut,  you  won't  be  leaving 
'em — they'll  either  pay  you  what  they  ought  to  or  lose 
you." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that,  Charley." 

Charley  was  making  up  for  some  uncertainty  as  to  his 
own  logic  by  beaming  persuasiveness,  and  Mr.  Wrenn  was 
afraid  of  being  hypnotized.  "No,  no!"  he  throbbed, 
rising. 

"Well,  all  right!"  snarled  Charley,  "if  you  like  to  be 
Gogie's  goat.  .  .  .  Oh,  you're  all  right,  Wrennski.  I  sup 
pose  you  had  ought  to  stay,  if  you  feel  you  got  to.  ... 
Well,  so  long.  I've  got  to  beat  it  over  and  buy  a  pair  of 
socks  before  I  go  back." 

Mr.  Wrenn  crept  out  of  Driibel's  behind  him,  very 
melancholy.  Even  Charley  admitted  that  he  "had  ought 
to  stay,"  then;  and  what  chance  was  there  of  persuading 
the  dread  Mr.  Mortimer  R.  Guilfogle  that  he  wished  to  be 
looked  upon  as  one  resigning?  Where,  then,  any  chance 
of  globe-trotting;  perhaps  for  months  he  would  remain  in 
slavery,  and  he  had  hoped  just  that  morning —  One 
dreadful  quarter-hour  with  Mr.  Guilfogle  and  he  might 
be  free.  He  grinned  to  himself  as  he  admitted  that  this 
was  like  seeing  Europe  after  merely  swimming  the  mid 
winter  Atlantic. 

Well,  he  had  nine  minutes  more,  by  his  two-dollar 
watch;  nine  minutes  of  vagabondage.  He  gazed  across 
at  a  Greek  restaurant  with  signs  in  real  Greek  letters  like 
"ruins  at — well,  at  Aythens."  A  Chinese  chop-suey  den 
with  a  red-and-yellow  carved  dragon,  and  at  an  upper 
window  a  squat  Chinaman  who  might  easily  be  carrying 
a  kris9  "or  whatever  them  Chink  knives  are,"  as  he 
observed  for  the  hundredth  time  he  had  taken  this  journey. 
A  rotisserie,  before  whose  upright  fender  of  scarlet  coals 
whole  ducks  were  happily  roasting  to  a  shiny  brown. 
In  a  furrier's  window  were  Siberian  foxes'  skins  (Siberia! 

15 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

huts  of  "awful  brave  convicks";  the  steely  Northern 
Sea;  guards  in  blouses,  just  as  he'd  seen  them  at  an 
Academy  of  Music  play)  and  a  polar  bear  (meaning,  to 
him,  the  Northern  Lights,  the  long  hike,  and  the  igloo  at 
night).  And  the  florists!  There  were  orchids  that 
(though  he  only  half  knew  it,  and  that  all  inarticulately) 
whispered  to  him  of  jungles  where,  in  the  hot  hush,  he 

saw  the  slumbering  python  and "What  was  it  in 

that  poem,  that  'Mandalay'  thing?  was  it  about  jungles? 
Anyway: 

"'Them  garlicky  smells, 

And  the  sunshine  and  the  palms  and  the  bells.'" 

He  had  to  hurry  back  to  the  office.  He  stopped  only 
to  pat  the  head  of  a  florist's  delivery  horse  that  looked 
wistfully  at  him  from  the  curb.  "  Poor  old  fella.  What 
you  thinking  about?  Want  to  be  a  circus  horse  and 
wander?  Le's  beat  it  together.  You  can't,  eh?  Poor 
old  fella!" 

At  three-thirty,  the  time  when  it  seems  to  office  persons 
that  the  day's  work  never  will  end,  even  by  a  miracle,  Mr. 
Wrenn  was  shaky  about  his  duty  to  the  firm.  He  was 
more  so  after  an  electrical  interview  with  the  manager, 
who  spent  a  few  minutes,  which  he  happened  to  have  free, 
in  roaring  "I  want  to  know  why"  at  Mr.  Wrenn.  There 
was  no  particular  "why"  that  he  wanted  to  know;  he  was 
merely  getting  scientific  efficiency  out  of  employees,  a 
phrase  which  Mr.  Guilfogle  had  taken  from  a  business 
magazine  that  dilutes  efficiency  theories  for  inefficient 
employers. 

At  five-twenty  the  manager  summoned  him,  com 
plimented  him  on  nothing  in  particular,  and  suggested  that 
he  stay  late  with  Charley  Carpenter  and  the  stock-keeper 
to  inventory  a  line  of  desk-clocks  which  they  were  closing 
out. 

As  Mr.  Wrenn  returned  to  his  desk  he  stopped  at  a 

16 


MR.    WRENN    IS    LONELY 

window  on  the  corridor  and  coveted  the  bright  late 
afternoon.  The  cornices  of  lofty  buildings  glistened; 
the  sunset  shone  fierily  through  the  glass-inclosed  layer- 
like  upper  floors.  He  wanted  to  be  out  there  in  the 
streets  with  the  shopping  crowds.  Old  Goglefogle  didn't 
consider  him;  why  should  he  consider  the  firm? 


II 

HE   WALKS   WITH  MISS   THERESA 

A>  he  left  the  Souvenir  Company  building  after  work 
ing  late  at  taking  inventory  and  roamed  down  toward 
Fourteenth  Street,  Mr.  Wrenn  felt  forlornly  aimless. 
The  worst  of  it  all  was  that  he  could  not  go  to  the  Nickelor- 
ion  for  moving  pictures;  not  after  having  been  cut  by  the 
ticket-taker.  Then,  there  before  him  was  the  glaring 
sign  of  the  Nickelorion  tempting  him;  a  bill  with  "Great 
Train  Robbery  Film  To-night"  made  his  heart  thump  like 
stair-climbing — and  he  dashed  at  the  ticket-booth  with  a 
nickel  doughtily  extended.  He  felt  queer  about  the 
scalp  as  the  cashier  girl  slid  out  a  coupon.  Why  did  she 
seem  to  be  watching  him  so  closely?  As  he  dropped  the 
ticket  in  the  chopper  he  tried  to  glance  away  from  the 
Brass-button  Man.  For  one-nineteenth  of  a  second  he 
kept  his  head  turned.  It  turned  back  of  itself;  he  stared 
full  at  the  man,  half  bowed — and  received  a  hearty  absent- 
minded  nod  and  a  "Fine  evenin'."  He  sang  to  himself  a 
monotonous  song  of  great  joy.  When  he  stumbled  over 
the  feet  of  a  large  German  in  getting  to  a  seat,  he  apolo 
gized  as  though  he  were  accustomed  to  laugh  easily  with 
many  friends. 

The  train-robbery  film  was — well,  he  kept  repeating 
"Gee!"  to  himself  pantingly.  How  the  masked  men  did 
sneak,  simply  sneak  and  sneak,  behind  the  bushes!  Mr. 
Wrenn  shrank  as  one  of  them  leered  out  of  the  picture  at 
him.  How  gallantly  the  train  dashed  toward  the  robbers, 
to  the  spirit-stirring  roll  of  the  snare-drum.  The  rush 

18 


HE, WALKS   WITH   MISS   THERESA 

from  the  bushes  followed;  the  battle  with  detectives  con 
cealed  in  the  express -car.  Mr.  Wrenn  was  standing 
sturdily  and  shooting  coolly  with  the  slender  hawk-faced 
Pinkerton  man  in  puttees;  with  him  he  leaped  to  horse 
and  followed  the  robbers  through  the  forest.  He  stayed 
through  the  whole  program  twice  to  see  the  train  robbery 
again. 

As  he  started  to  go  out  he  found  the  ticket-taker  chang 
ing  his  long  light-blue  robe  of  state  for  a  highly  common 
place  sack-coat  without  brass  buttons.  In  his  astonish 
ment  at  seeing  how  a  Highness  could  be  transformed  into  an 
every-day  man,  Mr.  Wrenn  stopped,  and,  having  stopped, 
spoke: 

"Uh — that  was  quite  a — quite  a  picture — that  train 
robbery.  Wasn't  it." 

"  Yuh,  I  guess Now  where's  the  devil  and  his  wife 

flew  away  to  with  my  hat?  Them  guys  is  always  swiping 

it.  Picture,  mister?  Why,  I  didn't  see  it  no  more  'n 

Say  you,  Pink  Eye,  say  you  crab-footed  usher,  did  you  swipe 
my  hat?  Ain't  he  the  cut-up,  mister!  Ain't  both  them 
ushers  the  jingling  sheepsheads,  though!  Being  cute  and 
hiding  my  hat  in  the  box-office.  Picture?  I  don't  get  no 
chance  to  see  any  of  'em.  Funny,  ain't  it? — me  barking 
for  'em  like  I  was  the  grandmother  of  the  guy  that  in 
vented  'em,  and  not  knowing  whether  the  train  rob 
bery Now  who  stole  my  going-home  shoes?  .  .  . 

Why,  I  don't  know  whether  the  train  did  any  robbing  or 
not!" 

He  slapped  Mr.  Wrenn  on  the  back,  and  the  sales 
clerk's  heart  bounded  in  comradeship.  He  was  surprised 
into  declaring: 

"Say — uh — I  bowed  to  you  the  other  night  and  you — 
well,  honestly,  you  acted  like  you  never  saw  me." 

"Well,  well,  now,  and  that's  what  happens  to  me  for 
being  the  dad  of  five  kids  and  a  she-girl  and  a  tom-cat. 
Sure,  I  couldn't  've  seen  you.  Me,  I  was  probably  that 
busy  with  fambly  cares — I  was  probably  thinking  who  was 

19 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

it  et  the  lemon  pie  on  me — was  it  Pete  or  Johnny,  or  shall 
I  lick  'em  both  together,  or  just  bite  me  wife." 

Mr.  Wrenn  knew  that  the  ticket-taker  had  never,  never 
really  considered  biting  his  wife.  He  knew!  His  nod  and 
grin  and  "That's  the  idea!"  were  urbanely  sophisticated. 
He  urged: 

"Oh  yes,  I'm  sure  you  didn't  intend  to  hand  me  the 
icy  mitt.  Say!  I'm  thirsty.  Come  on  over  to  Moje's 
and  I'll  buy  you  a  drink." 

He  was  aghast  at  this  abyss  of  money-spending  into 
which  he  had  leaped,  and  the  Brass-button  Man  was 
suspiciously  wondering  what  this  person  wanted  of  him; 
but  they  crossed  to  the  adjacent  saloon,  a  New  York 
corner  saloon,  which  of  course  "glittered"  with  a  large 
mirror,  heaped  glasses,  and  a  long  shining  foot-rail  on 
which,  in  bravado,  Mr.  Wrenn  placed  his  Cum-Fee-Best 
shoe. 

"Uh?"  said  the  bartender. 

"Rye,  Jimmy,"  said  the  Brass-button  Man. 

"Uh-h-h-h-h,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn,  in  a  frightened  diminu 
endo,  now  that — wealthy  citizen  though  he  had  become — 
he  was  in  danger  of  exposure  as  a  mollycoddle  who  couldn't 
choose  his  drink  properly.  "Stummick  been  hurting  me. 
Guess  I'd  better  just  take  a  lemonade." 

"You're  the  brother-in-law  to  a  wise  one,"  commented 
the  Brass-button  Man.  "Me,  I  ain't  never  got  the  sense 
to  do  the  traffic  cop  on  the  booze.  The  old  woman  she 
says  to  me,  'Mory,'  she  says,  'if  you  was  in  heaven  and 
there  was  a  pail  of  beer  on  one  side  and  a  gold  harp  on 
the  other/  she  says,  'and  you  was  to  have  your  pick,  which 
would  you  take?'  And  what  'd  yuh  think  I  answers  her?" 

"The  beer,"  said  the  bartender.  "She  had  your  num 
ber,  all  right." 

"Not  on  your  tin-type,"  declared  the  ticket-taker. 
"'Me?'  I  says  to  her.  'Me?  I'd  pinch  the  harp  and 
pawn  it  for  ten  growlers  of  Dutch  beer  and  some  man- 
sized  rum!'" 

20 


HE    WALKS    WITH    MISS    THERESA 

"Hee,  hee  hee!"  grinned  Mr.  Wrenn. 

"Ha,  ha,  ha!"  grumbled  the  bartender. 

"Well-1-1,"  yawned  the  ticket-taker,  "the  old  woman  '11 
be  chasing  me  best  pants  around  the  flat,  if  she  don't  have 
me  to  chase,  pretty  soon.  Guess  I'd  better  beat  it. 
Much  obliged  for  the  drink,  Mr.  Uh.  So  long,  Jimmy." 

Mr.  Wrenn  set  off  for  home  in  a  high  state  of  exhilaration 
which,  he  noticed,  exactly  resembled  driving  an  aeroplane, 
and  went  briskly  up  the  steps  of  the  Zapps'  genteel  but 
unexciting  residence.  He  was  much  nearer  to  heaven  than 
West  Sixteenth  Street  appears  to  be  to  the  outsider.  For 
he  was  an  explorer  of  the  Arctic,  a  trusted  man  on  the  job, 
an  associate  of  witty  Bohemians.  He  was  an  army 
lieutenant  who  had,  with  his  friend  the  hawk -faced 
Pinkerton  man,  stood  ofF  bandits  in  an  attack  on  a  train. 
He  opened  and  closed  the  door  gaily.  He  was 

He  was  an  apologetic  little  Mr.  Wrenn.  His  landlady 
stood  on  the  bottom  step  of  the  hall  stairs  in  a  bunchy 
Mother  Hubbard,  groaning: 

"Mist'  Wrenn,  if  you  got  to  come  in  so  late,  Ah  wish 
you  wouldn't  just  make  all  the  noise  you  can.  Ah  don't 
see  why  Ah  should  have  to  be  kept  awake  all  night.  Ah 
suppose  it's  the  will  of  the  Lord  that  whenever  Ah  go  out 
to  see  Mrs.  Muzzy  and  just  drink  a  drop  of  coffee  Ah  must 
get  insomina,  but  Ah  don't  see  why  anybody  that  tries 
to  be  a  gennulman  should  have  to  go  and  bang  the  door 
and  just  rack  mah  nerves." 

He  slunk  up-stairs  behind  Mrs.  Zapp's  lumbering  gloom. 

"There's  something  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Mrs.  Zapp — 
something  that's  happened  to  me.  That's  why  I  was  out 
celebrating  last  evening  and  got  in  so  late."  Mr.  Wrenn 
was  diffidently  sitting  in  the  basement. 

"Yes,"  dryly,  "Ah  noticed  you  was  out  late,  Mist' 
Wrenn." 

"You  see,  Mrs.  Zapp,  I — uh — my  father  left  me  some 
land,  and  it's  been  sold  for  about  one  thousand  plunks." 
3  21 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Ah'm  awfuF  glad,  Mist*  Wrenn,"  she  said,  funereally. 
" Maybe  you'd  like  to  take  that  hall  room  beside  yours 
now.  The  two  rooms  'd  make  a  nice  apartment."  (She 
really  said  "nahs  'pahtmun',"  you  understand.) 

"Why,  I  hadn't  thought  much  about  that  yet."  He 
felt  guilty,  and  was  profusely  cordial  to  Lee  Theresa  Zapp, 
the  factory  forewoman,  who  had  just  thumped  down-stairs. 

Miss  Theresa  was  a  large  young  lady  with  a  bust,  much 
black  hair,  and  a  handsome  disdainful  discontented  face. 
She  waited  till  he  had  finished  greeting  her,  then  sniffed, 
and  at  her  mother  she  snarled: 

"Ma,  they  went  and  kept  us  late  again  to-night.  Fm 
getting  just  about  tired  of  having  a  bunch  of  Jews  and 
Yankees  think  I'm  a  nigger.  Uff!  I  hate  them!" 

"T'resa,  Mist'  Wrenn's  just  inherited  two  thousand 
dollars,  and  he's  going  to  take  that  upper  hall  room." 
Mrs.  Zapp  beamed  with  maternal  fondness  at  the  timid 
lodger. 

But  the  gallant  friend  of  Pinkertons  faced  her — for  the 
first  time.  "Waste  his  travel-money?"  he  was  inwardly 
exclaiming  as  he  said: 

"But  I  thought  you  had  some  one  in  that  room.  I 
heard  som " 

"That  fellow!  Oh,  he  ain't  going  to  be  perm'nent. 
And  he  promised  me •  So  you  can  have " 

"I'm  awful  sorry,  Mrs.  Zapp,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't 
take  it.  Fact  is,  I  may  go  traveling  for  a  while." 

"Co'se  you'll  keep  your  room  if  you  do,  Mist'  Wrenn?" 

"  Why,  I'm  afraid  I'll  have  to  give  it  up,  but —  Oh, 
I  may  not  be  going  for  a  long  long  while  yet;  and  of  course 
I'll  be  glad  to  come — I'll  want  to  come  back  here  when  I 
get  back  to  New  York.  I  won't  be  gone  for  more  than, 
oh,  probably  not  more  than  a  year  anyway,  and 

"And  Ah  thought  you  said  you  was  going  to  be  perm' 
nent!"  Mrs.  Zapp  began  quietly,  prefatory  to  working 
herself  up  into  hysterics.  "And  here  Ah've  gone  and  had 
your  room  fixed  up  just  for  you,  and  new  paper  put  in,  and 

22 


HE   WALKS   WITH   MISS   THERESA 

you've  always  been  talking  such  a  lot  about  how  you 
wanted  your  furniture  arranged,  and  Ah've  gone  and  made 
all  mah  plans " 

Mr.  Wrenn  had  been  a  shyly  paying  guest  of  the  Zapps 
for  four  years.  That  famous  new  paper  had  been  put 
up  two  years  before.  So  he  spluttered :  "Oh,  I'm  awfully 
sorry.  I  wish — uh — I  don't " 

"Ah'd  thank  you,  Mist'  Wrenn,  if  you  could  conveniently 
let  me  know  before  you  go  running  off  and  leaving  me  with 
empty  rooms,  with  the  landlord  after  the  rent,  and  me 
turning  away  people  that  'd  pay  more  for  the  room,  be 
cause  Ah  wanted  to  keep  it  for  you.  And  people  always 
coming  to  see  you  and  making  me  answer  the  door 
and " 

Even  the  rooming-house  worm  was  making  small  worm- 
like  sounds  that  presaged  turning.  Lee  Theresa  snapped 
just  in  time,  "Oh,  cut  it  out,  Ma,  will  you!"  She  had 
been  staring  at  the  worm,  for  he  had  suddenly  become 
interesting  and  adorable  and,  incidentally,  an  heir.  "I 
don't  see  why  Mr.  Wrenn  ain't  giving  us  all  the  notice  we 
can  expect.  He  said  he  mightn't  be  going  for  a  long 
time." 

"Oh!"  grunted  Mrs.  Zapp.  "So  mah  own  flesh  and 
blood  is  going  to  turn  against  me!" 

She  rose.  Her  appearance  of  majesty  was  somewhat 
lessened  by  the  creak  of  stays,  but  her  instinct  for  un 
pleasantness  was  always  good.  She  said  nothing  as  she 
left  them,  and  she  plodded  up-stairs  with  a  train  of  sighs. 

Mr.  Wrenn  looked  as  though  sudden  illness  had  over 
powered  him.  But  Theresa  laughed,  and  remarked: 
"You  don't  want  to  let  Ma  get  on  her  high  horse,  Mr. 
Wrenn.  She's  a  bluff." 

With  much  billowing  of  the  lower,  less  stiff  part  of  her 
garments,  she  sailed  to  the  cloudy  mirror  over  the  maga 
zine-filled  bookcase  and  inspected  her  cap  of  false  curls, 
with  many  prods  of  her  large  firm  hands  which  flashed 
with  Brazilian  diamonds.  Though  he  had  heard  the 

23 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

word  "puffs,"  he  did  not  know  that  half  her  hair  was 
false.  He  stared  at  it.  Though  in  disgrace,  he  felt  the 
honor  of  knowing  so  ample  and  rustling  a  woman  as 
Miss  Lee  Theresa. 

"  But,  say,  I  wish  I  could  've  let  her  know  I  was  going 
earlier,  Miss  Zapp.  I  didn't  know  it  myself,  but  it  does 
seem  like  a  mean  trick.  I  s'pose  I  ought  to  pay  her 
something  extra." 

"Why,  child,  you  won't  do  anything  of  the  sort.  Ma 
hasn't  got  a  bit  of  kick  coming.  You've  always  been 
awful  nice,  far  as  I  can  see."  She  smiled  lavishly.  "I 
went  for  a  walk  to-night. ...  I  wish  all  those  men  wouldn't 
stare  at  a  girl  so.  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  why  they  should 
stare  at  me." 

Mr.  Wrenn  nodded,  but  that  didn't  seem  to  be  the  right 
comment,  so  he  shook  his  head,  then  looked  frightfully 
embarrassed. 

"I  went  by  that  Armenian  restaurant  you  were  telling 
me  about,  Mr.  Wrenn.  Some  time  I  believe  I'll  go  dine 
there."  Again  she  paused. 

He  said  only,  "Yes,  it  is  a  nice  place." 

Remarking  to  herself  that  there  was  no  question  about 
it,  after  all,  he  was  a  little  fool,  Theresa  continued  the 
siege.  "Do  you  dine  there  often?" 

"Oh  yes.     It  is  a  nice  place." 

"Could  a  lady  go  there?" 

"Why,  yes,  I " 

"Yes!" 

"I  should  think  so,"  he  finished. 

"Oh! ...  I  do  get  so  awfully  tired  of  the  greasy  stuff  Ma 
and  Goaty  dish  up.  They  think  a  big  stew  that  tastes 
like  dish-water  is  a  dinner,  and  if  they  do  have  anything 
I  like  they  keep  on  having  the  same  thing  every  day  till 
I  throw  it  in  the  sink.  I  wish  I  could  go  to  a  restaurant 

once  in  a  while  for  a  change,  but  of  course I  dunno's 

it  would  be  proper  for  a  lady  to  go  alone  even  there. 
What  do  you  think ?  Oh  dear!"  She  sat  brooding  sadly. 

24 


HE    WALKS    WITH    MISS    THERESA 

He  had  an  inspiration.  Perhaps  Miss  Theresa  could  be 
persuaded  to  go  out  to  dinner  with  him  some  time.  lie 
begged: 

"Gee,  I  wish  you'd  let  me  take  you  up  there  some 
evening,  Miss  Zapp." 

"Now,  didn't  I  tell  you  to  call  me  'Miss  Theresa'? 
Well,  I  suppose  you  just  don't  want  to  be  friends  with  me. 
Nobody  does."  She  brooded  again. 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings.  Honest  I 
didn't.  I've  always  thought  you'd  think  I  was  fresh  if  I 
called  you  'Miss  Theresa,'  and  so  I " 

"Why,  I  guess  I  could  go  up  to  the  Armenian  with  you, 
perhaps.  When  would  you  like  to  go?  You  know  I've 
always  got  lots  of  dates  but  I — um — let's  see,  I  think  I 
could  go  to-morrow  evening." 

"Let's  do  it!     Shall  I  call  for  you,  Miss— uh— Theresa?" 

"Yes,  you  may  if  you'll  be  a  good  boy.  Good  night." 
She  departed  with  an  air  of  intimacy. 

Mr.  Wrenn  scuttled  to  the  Nickelorion,  and  admitted 
to  the  Brass-button  Man  that  he  was  "feeling  pretty 
good  's  evening." 

He  had  never  supposed  that  a  handsome  creature  like 
Miss  Theresa  could  ever  endure  such  a  "slow  fellow"  as 
himself.  For  about  one  minute  he  considered  with  a 
chill  the  question  of  whether  she  was  agreeable  because 
of  his  new  wealth,  but  reproved  the  fiend  who  was  making 
the  suggestion;  for  had  he  not  heard  her  mention  with 
great  scorn  a  second  cousin  who  had  married  an  old 
Yankee  for  his  money?  That  just  settled  that,  he  as 
sured  himself,  and  scowled  at  a  passing  messenger-boy 
for  having  thus  hinted,  but  hastily  grimaced  as  the 
youngster  showed  signs  of  loud  displeasure. 

The  Armenian  restaurant  is  peculiar,  for  it  has  foreign 
food  at  low  prices,  and  is  below  Thirtieth  Street,  yet  it  has 
not  become  Bohemian.  Consequently  it  has  no  bad 
music  and  no  crowd  of  persons  from  Missouri  whose 

25 


OUR   MR,':  WRENN 

women  risk  salvation  for  an  evening  by  smoking  cigarettes. 
Here  prosperous  Oriental  merchants,  of  mild  natures  and 
bandit  faces,  drink  semi-liquid  Turkish  coffee  and  discuss 
rugs  and  revolutions. 

In  fact,  the  place  seemed  so  unartificial  that  Theresa, 
facing  Mr.  Wrenn,  was  bored.  And  the  menu  was 
foreign  without  being  Society  viands.  It  suggested  rats' 
tails  and  birds'  nests,  she  was  quite  sure.  She  would 
gladly  have  experimented  with  pate  defoie  gras  or  alligator- 
pears,  but  what  social  prestige  was  there  to  be  gained  at 
the  factory  by  remarking  that  she  "always  did  like 
pahklava"?  Mr.  Wrenn  did  not  see  that  she  was  glancing 
about  discontentedly,  for  he  was  delightedly  listening  to  a 
lanky  young  man  at  the  next  table  who  was  remarking 
to  his  vis-d-vis,  a  pale  slithey  lady  in  black,  with  the  lines 
of  a  torpedo-boat:  "Try  some  of  the  stuffed  vine-leaves, 
child  of  the  angels,  and  some  wheat  pilafand  some  bourma. 
Your  wheat  pilaf  is  a  comfortable  food  and  cheering  to  the 
stomach  of  man.  Simply  zoow-derful.  As  for  the  bourma, 
he  is  a  merry  beast,  a  brown  rose  of  pastry  with  honey 

cunningly  secreted   between  his   petals   and Here! 

Waiter!  Stuffed  vine-leaves,  wheat  p'laf,  bourm — twice 
on  the  order  and  hustle  it." 

"When  you  get  through  listening  to  that  man — he  talks 
like  a  bar  of  soap — tell  me  what  there  is  on  this  bill  of  fare 
that's  safe  to  eat,"  snorted  Theresa. 

"I  thought  he  was  real  funny,"  insisted  Mr.  Wrenn.  .  .  . 
"I'm  sure  you'll  like  shish  kebab  and  s " 

" Shish  kibub!  Who  ever  heard  of  such  a  thing! 
Haven't  they  any — oh,  I  thought  they'd  have  stuff  they 
call  'Turkish  Delight'  and  things  like  that." 

"'Turkish  Delights'  is  cigarettes,  I  think." 

"Well,  I  know  it  isn't,  because  I  read  about  it  in  a 
story  in  a  magazine.  And  they  were  eating  it.  On  the 
terrace.  .  .  .  What  is  that  shish  kibub?" 

"Kebab.  .  .  .  It's  lamb  roasted  on  skewers.  I  know 
you'll  like  it." 

26 


HE    WALKS    WITH    MISS    THERESA 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  trust  any  heathens  to  cook  my 
meat.  I'll  take  some  eggs  and  some  of  that — what  was 
it  the  idiot  was  talking  about — berma?" 

" Bourma.  .  .  .  That's  awful  nice.  With  honey.  And 
do  try  some  of  the  stuffed  peppers  and  rice." 

"All  right,"  said  Theresa,  gloomily. 

Somehow  Mr.  Wrenn  wasn't  vastly  transformed  even 
by  the  possession  of  the  two  thousand  dollars  her  mother 
had  reported.  He  was  still  "funny  and  sort  of  scary,"  not 
like  the  overpowering  Southern  gentlemen  she  supposed 
she  remembered.  Also,  she  was  hungry.  She  listened 
with  stolid  glumness  to  Mr.  Wrenn's  observation  that 
that  was  "an  awful  big  hat  the  lady  with  the  funny  guy 
had  on." 

He  was  chilled  into  quietness  till  Papa  Gouroff,  the 
owner  of  the  restaurant,  arrived  from  above  -  stairs. 
Papa  Gouroff  was  a  Russian  Jew  who  had  been  a  police 
spy  in  Poland  and  a  hotel  proprietor  in  Mogador,  where  he 
called  himself  Turkish  and  married  a  renegade  Armenian. 
He  had  a  nose  like  a  sickle  and  a  neck  like  a  blue-gum 
nigger.  He  hoped  that  the  place  would  degenerate  into  a 
Bohemian  restaurant  where  liberal  clergymen  would 
think  they  were  slumming,  and  barbers  would  think  they 
were  entering  society,  so  he  always  wore  a  fez  and  talked 
bad  Arabic.  He  was  local  color,  atmosphere,  Bohemian 
flavor.  Mr.  Wrenn  murmured  to  Theresa: 

"Say,  do  you  see  that  man?  He's  Signor  Gouroff,  the 
owner.  I've  talked  to  him  a  lot  of  times.  Ain't  he  great! 
Golly!  look  at  that  beak  of  his.  Don't  he  make  you 
think  of  kiosks  and  hyrems  and  stuff?  Gee!  What  does 
he  make  you  think " 

"He's  got  on  a  dirty  collar.  .  .  .  That  waiter's  awful 
slow.  .  .  .  Would  you  please  be  so  kind  and  pour  me  an 
other  glass  of  water?" 

But  when  she  reached  the  honied  bourma  she  grew 
tolerant  toward  Mr.  Wrenn.  She  had  two  cups  of  cocoa 
and  felt  fat  about  the  eyes  and  affectionate.  She  had 

27 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

mentioned  that  there  were  good  shows  in  town.     Now 
she  resumed: 

"Have  you  been  to  'The  Gold  Brick'  yet?" 
"No,  I — uh — I  don't  go  to  the  theater  much." 
"Gwendolyn  Muzzy  was  telling  me  that  this  was  the 
funniest  show  she'd  ever  seen.     Tells  how  two  confidence 
men  fooled  one  of  those  terrible  little  jay  towns.     Shows 
all  the  funny  people,  you  know,  like  they  have  in  jay 
towns.  ...  I  wish  I  could  go  to  it,  but  of  course  I  have  to 

help  out  the  folks  at  home,  so Well.  . .  .  Oh  dear." 

"Say!  I'd  like  to  take  you,  if  I  could.  Let's  go — this 
evening!"  He  quivered  with  the  adventure  of  it. 

"Why,  I  don't  know;  I  didn't  tell  Ma  I  was  going  to  be 
out.  But — oh,  I  guess  it  would  be  all  right  if  I  was  with 
you." 

"Let's  go  right  up  and  get  some  tickets." 
"All  right."     Her  assent  was  too  eager,  but  she  imme 
diately  corrected  that  error  by  yawning,  "I  don't  suppose 

I'd  ought  to  go,  but  if  you  want  to " 

They  were  a  very  lively  couple  as  they  walked  up. 
He  trickled  sympathy  when  she  told  of  the  selfishness  of 
the  factory  girls  under  her  and  the  meanness  of  the 
superintendent  over  her,  and  he  laughed  several  times  as 
she  remarked  that  the  superintendent  "ought  to  be 
boiled  alive — that's  what  all  lobsters  ought  to  be,"  so  she 
repeated  the  epigram  with  such  increased  jollity  that  they 
swung  up  to  the  theater  in  a  gale;  and,  once  facing  the 
ennuied  ticket-seller,  he  demanded  dollar  seats  just  as 
though  he  had  not  been  doing  sums  all  the  way  up  to 
prove  that  seventy-five-cent  seats  were  the  best  he  could 
afford. 

The  play  was  a  glorification  of  Yankee  smartness. 
Mr.  Wrenn  was  disturbed  by  the  fact  that  the  swindler 
heroes  robbed  quite  all  the  others,  but  he  was  stirred  by 
the  brisk  romance  of  money-making.  The  swindlers  were ' 
supermen — blonde  beasts  with  card  indices  and  options 
instead  of  clubs.  Not  that  Mr.  Wrenn  made  any  obser- 

28 


HE   WALKS    WITH    MISS    THERESA 

vations  regarding  supermen.  But  when,  by  way  of 
commercial  genius,  the  swindler  robbed  a  young  night 
clerk  Mr.  Wrenn  whispered  to  Theresa,  "Gee!  he  cer 
tainly  does  know  how  to  jolly  them,  heh  ?" 

"Sh-h-h-h-h-h!"  said  Theresa. 

Every  one  made  millions,  victims  and  all,  in  the  last 
act,  as  a  proof  of  the  social  value  of  being  a  live  American 
business  man.  As  they  oozed  along  with  the  departing 
audience  Mr.  Wrenn  gurgled: 

"That  makes  me  feel  just  like  Fd  been  making  a  million 
dollars."  Masterfully,  he  proposed,  "Say,  let's  go  some 
place  and  have  something  to  eat." 

"All  right." 

"Let's I  almost  feel  as  if  I  could  afford  Rector's, 

after  that  play;  but,  anyway,  let's  go  to  Allaire's." 

Though  he  was  ashamed  of  himself  for  it  afterward,  he 
was  almost  haughty  toward  his  waiter,  and  ordered  Welsh 
rabbits  and  beer  quite  as  though  he  usually  breakfasted 
on  them.  He  may  even  have  strutted  a  little  as  he  hailed 
a  car  with  an  imaginary  walking-stick.  His  parting  with 
Miss  Theresa  was  intimate;  he  shook  her  hand  warmly. 

As  he  undressed  he  hoped  that  he  had  not  been  too 
abrupt  with  the  waiter,  "poor  cuss."  But  he  lay  awake 
to  think  of  Theresa's  hair  and  hand-clasp;  of  polished 
desks  and  florid  gentlemen  who  curtly  summoned  bank- 
presidents  and  who  had — he  tossed  the  bedclothes  about 
in  his  struggle  to  get  the  word — who  had  a  punch! 

He  would  do  that  Great  Traveling  of  his  in  the  land 
of  Big  Business! 

The  five  thousand  princes  of  New  York  to  protect  them 
selves  against  the  four  million  ungrateful  slaves  had  de 
vised  the  sacred  symbols  of  dress-coats,  large  houses,  and 
automobiles  as  the  outward  and  visible  signs  of  the  virtue 
of  making  money,  to  lure  rebels  into  respectability  and 
teach  them  the  social  value  of  getting  a  dollar  away  from 
that  inhuman,  socially  injurious  fiend,  Some  One  Else. 
That  Our  Mr.  Wrenn  should  dream  for  dreaming's  sake  was 

29 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

catastrophic;  he  might  do  things  because  he  wanted  to, 
not  because  they  were  fashionable;  whereupon,  police 
forces  and  the  clergy  would  disband,  Wall  Street  and 
Fifth  Avenue  would  go  thundering  down.  Hence,  for 
him  were  provided  those  Y.  M.  C.  A.  night  bookkeeping 
classes  administered  by  solemn  earnest  men  of  thirty 
for  solemn  credulous  youths  of  twenty-nine;  those 
sermons  on  content;  articles  on  "building  up  the  run 
down  store  by  live  advertising";  Kiplingesque  stories 
about  playing  the  game;  and  correspondence-school  ad 
vertisements  that  shrieked,  "Mount  the  ladder  to  thor 
ough  knowledge — the  path  to  power  and  to  the  fuller, 
pay-envelope." 

To  all  these  Mr.  Wrenn  had  been  indifferent,  for  they' 
showed  no  imagination.  But  when  he  saw  Big  Business 
glorified  by  a  humorous  melodrama,  then  The  Job  appeared 
to  him  as  picaresque  adventure,  and  he  was  in  peril  of^ 
his  imagination. 

The  eight-o'clock  sun,  which  usually  found  a  wildly] 
shaving  Mr.  Wrenn,  discovered  him  dreaming  that  he 
was  the  manager  of  the  Souvenir  Company.  But  that 
was  a  complete  misunderstanding  of  the  case.  The' 
manager  of  the  Souvenir  Company  was  Mr.  Mortimer  R.j 
Guilfogle,  and  he  called  Mr.  Wrenn  in  to  acquaint  him* 
with  that  fact  when  the  new  magnate  started  his  career- 
in  Big  Business  by  arriving  at  the  office  one  hour  late. 

What  made  it  worse,  considered  Mr.  Guilfogle,  was  that1 
this  Wrenn  had  a  higher  average  of  punctuality  than  any! 
one  else  in  the  office,  which  proved  that  he  knew  better. ' 
Worst  of  all,  the  Guilfogle  family  eggs  had  not  been 
scrambled  right  at  breakfast;  they  had  been  anemic.  I 
Mr.  Guilfogle  punched  the  buzzer  and  set  his  face  toward  \ 
the  door,  with  a  scowl  prepared. 

Mr.  Wrenn  seemed  weary,  and  not  so  intimidated  as1 
usual. 

"Look  here,  Wrenn;  you  were  just  about  two  hours  late 

30 


HE   WALKS   WITH   MISS   THERESA 

this  morning.  What  do  you  think  this  office  is  ?  A  club  or 
a  reading-room  for  hoboes  ?  Ever  occur  to  you  we'd  like 
to  have  you  favor  us  with  a  call  now  and  then  so's  we  can 
learn  how  you're  getting  along  at  golf  or  whatever  you're 
'doing  these  days?" 

There  was  a  sample  baby-shoe  office  pin-cushion  on  the 
manager's  desk.  Mr.  Wrenn  eyed  this,  and  said  nothing. 
;The  manager: 

"Hear  what  I  said?  D'yuh  think  I'm  talking  to  give 
;  my  throat  exercise  ?" 

Mr.  Wrenn  was  stubborn.     "I  couldn't  help  it." 

"Couldn't  help !  And  you  call  that  an  explana 
tion!  I  know  just  exactly  what  you're  thinking,  Wrenn; 
you're  thinking  that  because  I've  let  you  have:'a  lot  of 
j  chances  to  really  work  into  the  business  lately  you're 
;  necessary  to  us,  and  not  simply  an  expense — 

"Oh  no,  Mr.  Guilfogle;   honest,  I  didn't  think " 

"Well,  hang  it,  man,  you  want  to  think.  What  do  you 
suppose  we  pay  you  a  salary  for?  And  just  let  me  tell 
you,  Wrenn,  right  here  and  now,  that  if  you  can't  conde 
scend  to  spare  us  some  of  your  valuable  time,  now  and 
then,  we  can  good  and  plenty  get  along  without  you." 

An  old  tale,  oft  told  and  never  believed;  but  it  inter 
ested  Mr.  Wrenn  just  now. 

"I'm  real  glad  you  can  get  along  without  me.  I've 
just  inherited  a  big  wad  of  money!  I  think  I'll  resign! 
.Right  now!" 

Whether  he  or  Mr.  Mortimer  R.  Guilfogle  was  the 
more  aghast  at  hearing  him  bawl  this  no  one  knows. 
fThe  manager  was  so  worried  at  the  thought  of  breaking 
in  a  new  man  that  his  eye-glasses  slipped  off  his  poor 
'perspiring  nose.  He  begged,  in  sudden  tones  of  old 
friendship: 

"Why,  you  can't  be  thinking  of  leaving  us!  Why,  we 
expect  to  make  a  big  man  of  you,  Wrenn.  I  was  joking 
about  firing  you.  You  ought  to  know  that,  after  the  talk 
we  had  at  Mouquin's  the  other  night.  You  can't  be 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

thinking  of  leaving  us!  There's  no  end  of  possibilities 
here." 

"Sorry,"  said  the  dogged  soldier  of  dreams. 

"Why "  wailed  that  hurt  and  astonished  victim  of 

ingratitude,  Mr.  Guilfogle. 

"I'll  leave  the  middle  of  June.  That's  plenty  of 
notice,"  chirruped  Mr.  Wrenn. 

At  five  that  evening  Mr.  Wrenn  dashed  up  to  the 
Brass-button  Man  at  his  station  before  the  Nickelorion, 
crying: 

"Say!     You  come  from  Ireland,  don't  you?" 

"Now  what  would  you  think?  Me — oh  no;  I'm  a 
Chinaman  from  Oshkosh!" 

"No,  honest,  straight,  tell  me.  I've  got  a  chance  to 
travel.  What  d'yuh  think  of  that?  Ain't  it  great! 
And  I'm  going  right  away.  What  I  wanted  to  ask  you 
was,  what's  the  best  place  in  Ireland  to  see?" 

"  Donegal,  o'  course.     I  was  born  there." 

Hauling  from  his  pocket  a  pencil  and  a  worn  envelope, 
Mr.  Wrenn  joyously  added  the  new  point  of  interest  to  a 
listjranging  from  Delagoa  Bay  to  Denver. 

He  skipped  up-town,  looking  at  the  stars.  He  shouted 
as  he  saw  the  stacks  of  a  big  Cunarder  bulking  up  at  the 
end  of  Fourteenth  Street.  He  stopped  to  chuckle  over  a 
lithograph  of  the  Parthenon  at  the  window  of  a  Greek 
bootblack's  stand.  Stars — steamer — temples,  all  these 
were  his.  He  owned  them  now.  He  was  free. 

Lee  Theresa  sat  waiting  for  him  in  the  basement  living- 
room  till  ten-thirty  while  he  was  flirting  with  trainboards 
at  the  Grand  Central.  Then  she  went  to  bed,  and, 
though  he  knew  it  not,  that  prince  of  wealthy  suitors, 
Mr.  Wrenn,  had  entirely  lost  the  heart  and  hand  of  Miss 
Zapp  of  the  F.  F.  V. 

He  stood  before  the  manager's  god-like  desk  on  June 
14,  1910.  Sadly: 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Guilfogle.  Leaving  to-day.  I  wish 

32 


HE   WALKS   WITH    MISS   THERESA 

Gee !  I  wish  I  could  tell  you,  you  know — about  how  much 
I  appreciate " 

The  manager  moved  a  wire  basket  of  carbon  copies  of 
letters  from  the  left  side  of  his  desk  to  the  right,  staring 
at  them  thoughtfully;  rearranged  his  pencils  in  a  pile 
before  his  ink-well;  glanced  at  the  point  of  an  indelible 
pencil  with  a  manner  of  startled  examination;  tapped  his 
desk-blotter  with  his  knuckles;  then  raised  his  eyes.  He 
studied  Mr.  Wrenn,  smiled,  put  on  the  look  he  used  when 
inviting  him  out  for  a  drink.  Mr.  Guilfogle  was  essen 
tially  an  honest  fellow,  harshened  by  The  Job;  a  well- 
satisfied  victim,  with  the  imagination  clean  gone  out  of 
him,  so  that  he  took  follow-up  letters  and  the  celerity  of 
office-boys  as  the  only  serious  things  in  the  world.  He 
was  strong,  alive,  not  at  all  a  bad  chap,  merely  efficient. 

"Well,  Wrenn,  I  suppose  there's  no  use  of  rubbing  it  in. 
Course  you  know  what  I  think  about  the  whole  thing.  It 
strikes  me  you're  a  fool  to  leave  a  good  job.  But,  after 
all,  that's  your  business,  not  ours.  We  like  you,  and 
when  you  get  tired  of  being  just  a  bum,  why,  come  back; 
we'll  always  try  to  have  a  job  open  for  you.  Meanwhile 
I  hope  you'll  have  a  mighty  good  time,  old  man.  Where 
you  going?  When  d'yuh  start  out?" 

"Why,  first  I'm  going  to  just  kind  of  wander  round 
generally.  Lots  of  things  I'd  like  to  do.  I  think  I'll  get 
away  real  soon  now. . . .  Thank  you  awfully,  Mr.  Guilfogle, 
for  keeping  a  place  open  for  me.  Course  I  prob'ly  won't 
need  it,  but  gee!  I  sure  do  appreciate  it." 

"Say,  I  don't  believe  you're  so  plumb  crazy  about 
leaving  us,  after  all,  now  that  the  cards  are  all  dole  out. 
Straight  now,  are  you?" 

"Yes,  sir,  it  does  make  me  feel  a  little  blue — been  here 
so  long.  But  it  '11  be  awful  good  to  get  out  at  sea." 

"  Yuh,  I  know,  Wrenn.  I'd  like  to  go  traveling  myself 
— I  suppose  you  fellows  think  I  wouldn't  care  to  go  bum 
ming  around  like  you  do  and  never  have  to  worry  about 

how  the  firm's  going  to  break  even.  But Well, 

33 


OUR  ;MR.  WRENN 

good-by,  old  man,  and  don't  forget  us.  Drop  me  a  line 
now  and  then  and  let  me  know  how  you're  getting  along. 
Oh  say,  if  you  happen  to  see  any  novelties  that  look  good 
let  us  hear  about  them.  But  drop  me  a  line,  anyway. 
We'll  always  be  glad  to  hear  from  you.  Well,  good-by 
and  good  luck.  Sure  and  drop  me  a  line." 

In  the  corner  which  had  been  his  home  for  eight  years 
Mr.  Wrenn  could  not  devise  any  new  and  yet  more  im 
proved  arrangement  of  the  wire  baskets  and  clips  and 
desk  reminders,  so  he  cleaned  a  pen,  blew  some  gray 
eraser-dust  from  under  his  iron  ink-well  standard,  and 
decided  that  his  desk  was  in  order;  reflecting: 

He'd  been  there  a  long  time.  Now  he  could  never 
come  back  to  it,  no  matter  how  much  he  wanted  to.  ... 
How  good  the  manager  had  been  to  him.  Gee!  he 
hadn't  appreciated  how  considerut  Guilfogle  was! 

He  started  down  the  corridor  on  a  round  of  farewells 
to  the  boys.  "Too  bad  he  hadn't  never  got  better 
acquainted  with  them,  but  it  was  too  late  now.  Anyway, 
they  were  such  fine  jolly  sports;  they'd  never  miss  a 
stupid  guy  like  him." 

Just  then  he  met  them  in  the  corridor,  all  of  them 
except  Guilfogle,  headed  by  Rabin,  the  traveling  salesman, 
and  Charley  Carpenter,  who  was  bearing  a  box  of  handker 
chiefs  with  a  large  green-and-crimson-paper  label. 

"Gov'nor  Wrenn,"  orated  Charley,  "upon  this  sus 
picious  occasion  we  have  the  pleasure  of  showing  by  this 
small  token  of  our  esteem  our  'preciation  of  your  untiring 
efforts  in  the  investigation  of  Mortimer  R.  Gugglegiggle 
of  the  Graft  Trust  and 

"Say,  old  man,  joking  aside,  we're  mighty  sorry  you're 
going  and — uh — well,  we'd  like  to  give  you  something  to 
show  we're — uh — mighty  sorry  you're  going.  We  thought 
of  a  box  of  cigars,  but  you  don't  smoke  much;  anyway, 

these  han'k'chiefs  '11  help  to  show Three  cheers  for 

Wrenn,  fellows!" 

Afterward,  by  his  desk,  alone,  holding  the  box  of  hand- 

34 


HE  WALKS  WITH  MISS  THERESA 

kerchiefs  with  the  resplendent  red-and-green  label,  Mr. 
Wrenn  began  to  cry. 

He  was  lying  abed  at  eight-thirty  on  a  morning  of  late 
June,  two  weeks  after  leaving  the  Souvenir  Company,  de 
liberately  hunting  over  his  pillow  for  cool  spots,  very  hot 
and  restless  in  the  legs  and  enormously  depressed  in  the 
soul.  He  would  have  got  up  had  there  been  anything  to 
get  up  for.  There  was  nothing,  yet  he  felt  uneasily  guilty. 
For  two  weeks  he  had  been  afraid  of  losing,  by  neglect,  the 
job  he  had  already  voluntarily  given  up.  So  there  are 
men  whom  the  fear  of  death  has  driven  to  suicide. 

Nearly  every  morning  he  had  driven  himself  from  bed 
and  had  finished  shaving  before  he  was  quite  satisfied 
that  he  didn't  have  to  get  to  the  office  on  time.  As  he 
wandered  about  during  the  day  he  remarked  with  fre 
quency,  "I'm  scared  as  teacher's  pet  playing  hookey  for 
the  first  time,  like  what  we  used  to  do  in  Parthenon." 
All  proper  persons  were  at  work  of  a  week-day  afternoon. 
What,  then,  was  he  doing  walking  along  the  street  when 
all  morality  demanded  his  sitting  at  a  desk  at  the  Souvenir 
Company,  being  a  little  more  careful,  to  win  the  divine 
favor  of  Mortimer  R.  Guilfogle? 

He  was  sure  that  if  he  were  already  out  on  the  Great 
Traveling  he  would  be  able  to  "push  the  buzzer  on  him 
self  and  get  up  his  nerve."  But  he  did  not  know  where  to 
go.  He  had  planned  so  many  trips  these  years  that  now 
he  couldn't  keep  any  one  of  them  finally  decided  on  for 
more  than  an  hour.  It  rather  stretched  his  short  arms 
to  embrace  at  once  a  gay  old  dream  of  seeing  Venice  and 
the  stern  civic  duty  of  hunting  abominably  dangerous 
beasts  in  the  Guatemala  bush. 

The  expense  bothered  him,  too.  He  had  through  many 
years  so  persistently  saved  money  for  the  Great  Traveling 
that  he  begrudged  money  for  that  Traveling  itself. 
Indeed,  he  planned  to  spend  not  more  than  $300  of  the 
$1,235.80  he  had  now  accumulated,  on  his  first  venture, 

35 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

during   which    he   hoped   to   learn   the    trade   of  wan 
dering. 

He  was  always  influenced  by  a  sentence  he  had  read 
somewhere  about  "one  of  those  globe-trotters  you  meet 
carrying  a  monkey-wrench  in  Calcutta,  then  in  raiment 
and  a  monocle  at  the  Athenaeum."  He  would  learn  some 
Kiplingy  trade  that  would  teach  him  the  use  of  astonish 
ingly  technical  tools,  also  daring  and  the  location  of 
smugglers'  haunts,  copra  islands,  and  whaling  -  stations 
with  curious  names. 

He  pictured  himself  shipping  as  third  engineer  at  the 
Manihiki  Islands  or  engaged  for  taking  moving  pictures 
of  an  aeroplane  flight  in  Algiers.  He  had  to  get  away 
from  Zappism.  He  had  to  be  out  on  the  iron  seas,  where 
the  battle-ships  and  liners  went  by  like  a  marching 
military  band.  But  he  couldn't  get  started. 

Once  beyond  Sandy  Hook,  he  would  immediately  know 
all  about  engines  and  fighting.  It  would  help,  he  was 
certain,  to  be  shanghaied.  But  no  matter  how  wistfully, 
no  matter  how  late  at  night  he  timorously  forced  himself  to 
loiter  among  unwashed  English  stokers  on  West  Street,  he 
couldn't  get  himself  molested  except  by  glib  persons 
wishing  ten  cents  "for  a  place  to  sleep." 

When  he  had  dallied  through  breakfast  that  particular 
morning  he  sat  about.  Once  he  had  pictured  sitting  about 
reading  travel-books  as  a  perfect  occupation.  But  it  con 
cealed  no  exciting  little  surprises  when  he  could  be  a  Sunday 
loafer  on  any  plain  Monday.  Furthermore,  Goaty  never 
made  his  bed  till  noon,  and  the  gray-and-brown-patched 
coverlet  seemed  to  trail  all  about  the  disordered  room. 

Midway  in  a  paragraph  he  rose,  threw  One  Hundred 
Ways  to  See  California  on  the  tumbled  bed,  and  ran  away 
from  Our  Mr.  Wrenn.  But  Our  Mr.  Wrenn  pursued  him 
along  the  wharves,  where  the  sun  glared  on  oily  water. 
He  had  seen  the  wharves  twelve  times  that  fortnight.  In 
fact,  he  even  cried  viciously  that  "he  had  seen  too  blame 
much  of  the  blame  wharves." 

36 


HE    WALKS    WITH    MISS    THERESA 

Early  in  the  afternoon  he  went  to  a  moving-picture  show, 
but  the  first  sight  of  the  white  giant  figures  bulking 
against  the  gray  background  was  wearily  unreal;  and 
when  the  inevitable  large-eyed  black-braided  Indian 
maiden  met  the  canonical  cow-puncher  he  threshed  about 
in  his  seat,  was  irritated  by  the  nervous  click  of  the 
machine  and  the  hot  stuffiness  of  the  room,  and  ran  away 
just  at  the  exciting  moment  when  the  Indian  chief  dashed 
into  camp  and  summoned  his  braves  to  the  war-path. 

Perhaps  he  could  hide  from  thought  at  home. 

As  he  came  into  his  room  he  stood  at  gaze  like  a  kitten 
of  good  family  beholding  a  mangy  mongrel  asleep  in  its 
pink  basket.  For  on  his  bed  was  Mrs.  Zapp,  her  rotund 
curves  stretching  behind  her  large  flat  feet,  whose  soles 
were  toward  him.  She  was  noisily  somnolent;  her  stays 
creaked  regularly  as  she  breathed,  except  when  she  moved 
slightly  and  groaned. 

Guiltily  he  tiptoed  down-stairs  and  went  snuffling  along 
the  dusty  unvaried  brick  side  streets,  wondering  where  in 
all  New  York  he  could  go.  He  read  minutely  a  placard 
advertising  an  excursion  to  the  Catskills,  to  start  that 
evening.  For  an  exhilarated  moment  he  resolved  to  go, 
but — "oh,  there  was  a  lot  of  them  rich  society  folks  up 
there."  He  bought  a  morning  American  and,  sitting  in 
Union  Square,  gravely  studied  the  humorous  drawings. 

He  casually  noticed  the  "Help  Wanted"  advertisements. 

They  suggested  an  uninteresting  idea  that  somehow  he 
might  find  it  economical  to  go  venturing  as  a  waiter  or 
farm-hand. 

And  so  he  came  to  the  gate  of  paradise: 

MEN  WANTED.  Free  passage  on  cattle-boats  to  Liverpool 
feeding  cattle.  Low  fee.  Easy  work.  Fast  boats.  Apply 
International  and  Atlantic  Employment  Bureau,  —  Greenwich 
Street. 

"Gee!"  he  cried,  "I  guess  Providence  has  picked  out  my 
first  hike  for  me." 

4  37 


Ill 

HE   STARTS   FOR  THE   LAND   OF   ELSEWHERE 

THE  International  and  Atlantic  Employment  Bureau 
is  a  long  dirty  room  with  the  plaster  cracked  like 
the  outlines  on  a  map,  hung  with  steamship  posters 
and  the  laws  of  New  York  regarding  employment  offices, 
which  are  regarded  as  humorous  by  the  proprietor, 
M.  Baraieff,  a  short  slender  ejaculatory  person  with  a 
nervous  black  beard,  lively  blandness,  and  a  knowledge 
of  all  the  incorrect  usages  of  nine  languages.  Mr.  Wrenn 
edged  into  this  junk-heap  of  nationalities  with  interested 
wonder.  M.  BaraiefF  rubbed  his  smooth  wicked  hands 
together  and  bowed  a  number  of  times. 

Confidentially  leaning  across  the  counter,  Mr.  Wrenn 
murmured:  "Say,  I  read  your  ad.  about  wanting  cattle 
men.  I  want  to  make  a  trip  to  Europe.  How ?" 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  Mistaire.  I  feex  you  up  right 
away.  Ten  dollars  pleas-s-s-s." 

"Well,  what  does  that  entitle  me  to?" 

" I  tole  you  I  feex  you  up.  Ha!  ha!  I  know  it;  you  are 
a  gentleman;  you  want  a  nice  leetle  trip  on  Europe.  Sure. 
I  feex  you  right  up.  I  send  you  off  on  a  nice  easy  cattle- 
boat  where  you  won't  have  to  work  much  hardly  any. 
Right  away  it  goes.  Ten  dollars  pleas-s-s-s." 

"But  when  does  the  boat  start?  Where  does  it  start 
from?"  Mr.  Wrenn  was  a  bit  confused.  He  had  never 
met  a  man  who  grimaced  so  politely  and  so  rapidly. 

"Next  Tuesday  I  send  you  right  off.5* 

Mr.  Wrenn  regretfully  exchanged  ten  dollars  for  a  card 

38 


T.HE   LAND   OF    ELSEWHERE 

*  ^ 

informing  Trubiggs,  Atlantic  Avenue,  Boston,  that  Mr. 
"Ren"  was  to  be  "ship  1st  poss.  catel  boat  right  away 
and  charge  my  acct.  fee  paid  Baraieff."  Brightly  declar 
ing  "I  geef  you  a  fine  ship,"  M.  Baraieff  added,  on  the 
margin  of  the  card,  in  copper-plate  script,  "Best  ship, 
easy  work."  He  caroled,  "Come  early  next  Tuesday 
morning,"  and  bowed  out  Mr.  Wrenn  like  a  Parisian  shop 
keeper.  The  row  of  waiting  servant-girls  curtsied  as 
though  they  were  a  hedge  swayed  by  the  wind,  while  Mr. 
Wrenn  self-consciously  hurried  to  get  past  them. 

He  was  too  excited  to  worry  over  the  patient  and  quiet 
suffering  with  which  Mrs.  Zapp  heard  the  announcement 
that  he  was  going.  That  Theresa  laughed  at  him  for  a 
cattleman,  while  Goaty,  in  the  kitchen,  audibly  observed 
that  "nobody  but  a  Yankee  would  travel  in  a  pig-pen," 
merely  increased  his  joy  in  moving  his  belongings  to  a 
storage  warehouse. 

Tuesday  morning,  clad  in  a  sweater-jacket,  tennis-shoes, 
an  old  felt  hat,  a  khaki  shirt  and  corduroys,  carrying  a 
suit-case  packed  to  bursting  with  clothes  and  Baedekers, 
with  one  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  express-company 
drafts  craftily  concealed,  he  dashed  down  to  Baraieff' s 
hole.  Though  it  was  only  eight-thirty,  he  was  afraid  he 
was  going  to  be  late. 

Till  2  P.M.  he  sat  waiting,  then  was  sent  to  the  Joy 
Steamship  Line  wharf  with  a  ticket  to  Boston  and  a 
letter  to  Trubiggs's  shipping-office:  "Give  bearer  Ren  as 
per  inclosed  receet  one  trip  England  catel  boat  charge  my 

acct.     SYLVESTRE  BARAIEFF,  N.  Y." 

v 

Standing  on  the  hurricane-deck  of  the  Joy  Line  boat, 
with  his  suit-case  guardedly  beside  him,  he  crooned  to 
himself  tuneless  chants  with  the  refrain,  "Free,  free,  out 
to  sea.  Free,  free,  that's  me!"  He  had  persuaded  him 
self  that  there  was  practically  no  danger  of  the  boat's 
sinking  or  catching  fire.  Anyway,  he  just  wasn't  going 
to  be  scared.  As  the  steamer  trudged  up  East  River 

39 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

he  watched  the  late  afternoon  sun  brighten  the  Manhattan 
factories  and  make  soft  the  stretches  of  Westchester 
fields.  (Of  course,  he  "thrilled.") 

He  had  no  state-room,  but  was  entitled  to  a  place  in  a 
twelve-berth  room  in  the  hold.  Here  large  farmers  with 
out  their  shoes  were  grumpily  talking  all  at  once,  so  he 
returned  to  the  deck;  and  the  rest  of  the  night,  while  the 
other  passengers  snored,  he  sat  modestly  on  a  canvas 
stool,  unblinkingly  gloating  over  a  sea-fabric  of  frosty 
blue  that  was  shot  through  with  golden  threads  when 
they  passed  lighthouses  or  ships.  At  dawn  he  was 
weary,  peppery-eyed,  but  he  viewed  the  flooding  light 
with  approval. 

At  last,  Boston. 

The  front  part  of  the  shipping-office  on  Atlantic  Avenue 
was  a  glass-inclosed  room  littered  with  chairs,  piles  of 
circulars,  old  pictures  of  Cunarders,  older  calendars,  and 
directories  to  be  ranked  as  antiques.  In  the  midst  of 
these  remains  a  red-headed  Yankee  of  forty,  smoking  a 
Pittsburg  stogie,  sat  tilted  back  in  a  kitchen  chair,  reading 
the  Boston  American.  Mr.  Wrenn  delivered  M.  BaraiefFs 
letter  and  stood  waiting,  holding  his  suit-case,  ready  to 
skip  out  and  go  aboard  a  cattle-boat  immediately. 

The  shipping-agent  glanced  through  the  letter,  then 
snapped: 

"BryfFs  crazy.  Always  sends  'em  too  early.  Wrenn, 
you  ought  to  come  to  me  first.  What  j'yuh  go  to  that 
Jew  first  for?  Here  he  goes  and  sends  you  a  day  late — 
or  couple  days  too  early.  *F  you'd  got  here  last  night 
I  could  've  sent  you  off  this  morning  on  a  Dominion  Line 
boat.  All  I  got  now  is  a  Leyland  boat  that  starts  from 
Portland  Saturday.  Le's  see;  this  is  Wednesday. 
Thursday,  Friday — you'll  have  to  wait  three  days.  Now 
you  want  me  to  fix  you  up,  don't  you?  I  might  not  be 
able  to  get  you  off  till  a  week  from  now,  but  you'd  like  to 
get  off  on  a  good  boat  Saturday  instead,  wouldn't  you?" 

"Oh  yes;  I  would.     I " 

40 


THE    LAND    OF    ELSEWHERE 

"Well,  I'll  try  to  fix  it.  You  can  see  for  yourself;  boats 
ain't  leaving  every  minute  just  to  please  Bryff.  And 
it's  the  busy  season.  Bunches  of  rah-rah  boys  wanting  to 
cross,  and  Canadians  wanting  to  get  back  to  England,  and 
Jews  beating  it  to  Poland — to  sling  bombs  at  the  Czar, 
I  guess.  And  lemme  tell  you,  them  Jews  is  all  right. 
They're  willing  to  pay  for  a  man's  time  and  trouble  in 
getting  'em  fixed  up,  and  so " 

With  dignity  Mr.  William  Wrenn  stated,  "Of  course 
Til  be  glad  to — uh — make  it  worth  your  while." 

"I  thought  you  was  a  gentleman.  Hey,  Al!  All" 
An  underfed  boy  with  few  teeth,  dusty  and  grown  out  of 
his  trousers,  appeared.  "Clear  off  a  chair  for  the  gentle 
man.  Stick  that  valise  on  top  my  desk.  ...  Sit  down, 
Mr.  Wrenn.  You  see,  it's  like  this:  I'll  tell  you  in  con 
fidence,  you  understand.  This  letter  from  BryfF  ain't 
worth  the  paper  it's  written  on.  He  ain't  got  any  right 
to  be  sending  out  men  for  cattle-boats.  Me,  I'm  running 
that.  I  deal  direct  with  all  the  Boston  and  Portland  lines. 
If  you  don't  believe  it  just  go  out  in  the  back  room  and 
ask  any  of  the  cattlemen  out  there." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  Mr.  Wrenn  observed,  as  though  he  were 
ill,  and  toed  an  old  almanac  about  the  floor.  "Uh — Mr. 
— Trubiggs,  is  it?" 

"Yump.  Yump,  my  boy.  Trubiggs.  Tru  by  name 
and  true  by  nature.  Heh?" 

This  last  was  said  quite  without  conviction.  It  was 
evidently  a  joke  which  had  come  down  from  earlier  years. 
Mr.  Wrenn  ignored  it  and  declared,  as  stoutly  as  he  could : 

"You  see,  Mr.  Trubiggs,  I'd  be  willing  to  pay  you " 

"I'll  tell  you  just  how  it  is,  Mr.  Wrenn.  I  ain't  one  of 
these  Sheeny  employment  bureaus;  I'm  an  American; 
I  like  to  look  out  for  Americans.  Even  if  you  didn't  come 
to  me  first  I'll  watch  out  for  your  interests,  same's  if  they 
was  mine.  Now,  do  you  want  to  get  fixed  up  with  a  nice 
fast  boat  that  leaves  Portland  next  Saturday,  just  a 
couple  of  days'  wait?" 

41 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Oh  yes,  I  do,  Mr.  Trubiggs." 

"Well,  my  list  is  really  full — men  waiting,  too — but  if 
it  'd  be  worth  five  dollars  to  you  to " 

"Here's  the  five  dollars/^ 

The  shipping-agent  was  disgusted.  He  had  estimated 
from  Mr.  Wrenn's  cheap  sweater-jacket  and  tennis-shoes 
that  he  would  be  able  to  squeeze  out  only  three  or  four 
dollars,  and  here  he  might  have  made  ten.  More  in 
sorrow  than  in  anger: 

"Of  course  you  understand  I  may  have  a  lot  of  trouble 
working  you  in  on  the  next  boat,  you  coming  as  late  as 
this.  Course  five  dollars  is  less  *n  what  I  usually  get." 
He  contemptuously  tossed  the  bill  on  his  desk.  "If  you 
want  me  to  slip  a  little  something  extra  to  the  agents " 

Mr.  Wrenn  was  too  head-achy  to  be  customarily  timid. 
"Let's  see  that.  Did  I  give  you  only  five  dollars?"  Re 
ceiving  the  bill,  he  folded  it  with  much  primness,  tucked 
it  into  the  pocket  of  his  shirt,  and  remarked: 

"Now,  you  said  you'd  fix  me  up  for  five  dollars.  Be 
sides,  that  letter  from  Baraieff  is  a  form  with  your  name 
printed  on  it;  so  I  know  you  do  business  with  him  right 
along.  If  five  dollars  ain't  enough,  why,  then  you  can 
just  go  to  hell,  Mr.  Trubiggs;  yes,  sir,  that's  what  you  can 
do.  I'm  just  getting  tired  of  monkeying  around.  If 
five  is  enough  I'll  give  this  back  to  you  Friday,  when  you 
send  me  off  to  Portland,  if  you  give  me  a  receipt.  There!" 
He  almost  snarled,  so  weary  and  discouraged  was  he. 

Now,  Trubiggs  was  a  warm-hearted  rogue,  and  he  liked 
the  society  of  what  he  called  "white  people."  He 
laughed,  poked  a  Pittsburg  stogie  at  Mr.  Wrenn,  and 
consented: 

"All  right.  I'll  fix  you  up.  Have  a  smoke.  Pay  me 
the  five  Friday,  or  pay  it  to  my  foreman  when  he  puts 
you  on  the  cattle-boat.  I  don't  care  a  rap  which.  You're 
all  right.  Can't  bluff  you,  eh  ?" 

And,  further  bluffing  Mr.  Wrenn,  he  suggested  to  him 
a  lodging-house  for  his  two  nights  in  Boston.  "Tell  the 

42 


THE    LAND    OF    ELSEWHERE 

clerk  that  red-headed  Trubiggs  sent  you,  and  he'll  give 
you  the  best  in  the  house.  Tell  him  you're  a  friend  of 
mine." 

When  Mr.  Wrenn  had  gone  Mr.  Trubiggs  remarked  to 
some  one,  by  telephone,  "'Nother  sucker  coming,  Blau- 
geld.  Now  don't  try  to  do  me  out  of  my  bit  or  I'll 
cap  for  some  other  joint,  understand?  Huh?  Yuh,  stick 
him  for  a  thirty-five-cent  bed.  S'  long." 

The  caravan  of  Trubiggs's  cattlemen  who  left  for  Port 
land  by  night  steamer,  Friday,  was  headed  by  a  bulky- 
shouldered  boss,  who  wore  no  coat  and  whose  corduroy 
vest  swung  cheerfully  open.  A  motley  troupe  were  the 
cattlemen  —  Jews  with  small  trunks,  large  imitation- 
leather  valises  and  assorted  bundles,  a  stolid  prophet- 
bearded  procession  of  weary  men  in  tattered  derbies  and 
sweat-shop  clothes. 

There  were  Englishmen  with  rope-bound  pine  chests. 
A  lewd-mouthed  American  named  Tim,  who  said  he  was 
a  hatter  out  of  work,  and  a  loud-talking  tough  called 
Pete  mingled  with  a  straggle  of  hoboes. 

The  boss  counted  the  group  and  selected  his  confidants 
for  the  trip  to  Portland — Mr.  Wrenn  and  a  youth  named 
Morton. 

Morton  was  a  square  heavy-fleshed  young  man  with 
stubby  hands,  who,  up  to  his  eyes,  was  stolid  and  solid  as  a 
granite  monument,  but  merry  of  eye  and  hinting  friendli 
ness  in  his  tousled  soft-brown  hair.  He  was  always 
wielding  a  pipe  and  artfully  blowing  smoke  through  his 
nostrils. 

Mr.  Wrenn  and  he  smiled  at  each  other  searchingly  as 
the  Portland  boat  pulled  out,  and  a  wind  swept  straight 
from  the  Land  of  Elsewhere. 

After  dinner  Morton,  smoking  a  pipe  shaped  somewhat 
like  a  golf-stick  head  and  somewhat  like  a  toad,  at  the 
rail  of  the  steamer,  turned  to  Mr.  Wrenn  with : 

"Classy  bunch  of  cattlemen  we've  got  to  go  with. 
Not!  .  .  .  My  name's  Morton." 

43 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"I'm  awful  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Morton.  My  name's 
Wrenn." 

"Glad  to  be  off  at  last,  ain't  you?" 

"Golly!   I  should  say  I  am!" 

"So'm  I.  Been  waiting  for  this  for  years.  I'm  a  clerk 
for  the  P.  R.  R.  in  N'  York." 

"I  come  from  New  York,  too." 

"So?     Lived  there  long?" 

"Uh-huh,  I "  began  Mr.  Wrenn. 

"Well,  I  been  working  for  the  Penn.  for  seven  years 
now.  Now  I've  got  a  vacation  of  three  months.  On  me. 
Gives  me  a  chance  to  travel  a  little.  Got  ten  plunks  and 
a  second-class  ticket  back  from  Glasgow.  But  I'm  going 
to  see  England  and  France  just  the  same.  Prob'ly  Ger 
many,  too." 

"Second  class?     Why  don't  you  go  steerage,  and  save?" 

"Oh,  got  to  come  back  like  a  gentleman.  You  know. 
You're  from  New  York,  too,  eh?" 

"Yes,  I'm  with  an  art-novelty  company  on  Twenty- 
eighth  Street.  I  been  wanting  to  get  away  for  quite 
some  time,  too.  .  .  .  How  are  you  going  to  travel  on  ten 
dollars?" 

"Oh,  work  m'  way.  Cinch.  Always  land  on  my  feet. 
Not  on  my  uppers,  at  that.  I'm  only  twenty-eight,  but 
I've  been  on  my  own,  like  the  English  fellow  says,  since 
I  was  twelve.  .  .  .  Well,  how  about  you?  Traveling  or 
going  somewhere?" 

"Just  traveling.  I'm  glad  we're  going  together,  Mr. 
Morton.  I  don't  think  most  of  these  cattlemen  are  very 
nice.  Except  for  the  old  Jews.  They  seem  to  be  fine  old 
coots.  They  make  you  think  of  —  oh  —  you  know  — 
prophets  and  stuff.  Watch  'em,  over  there,  making  tea. 
I  suppose  the  steamer  grub  ain't  kosher.  I  seen  one  on 
the  Joy  Line  saying  his  prayers — I  suppose  he  was — in  a 
kind  of  shawl." 

"Well,  well!     You  don't  say  so!" 

Distinctly,  Mr.  Wrenn  felt  that  he  was  one  of  the 

44 


THE    LAND   OF    ELSEWHERE 

gentlemen  who,  in  Kipling,  stand  at  steamer  rails  ex 
changing  observations  on  strange  lands.  He  uttered, 
cosmopolitanly: 

"Gee!    Look  at  that  sunset.     Ain't  that  grand!" 

"Holy  smoke!  it  sure  is.  I  don't  see  how  anybody 
could  believe  in  religion  after  looking  at  that." 

Shocked  and  confused  at  such  a  theory,  yet  excited  at 
rinding  that  Morton  apparently  had  thoughts,  Mr.  Wrenn 
piped:  "Honestly,  I  don't  see  that  at  all.  I  don't  see 
how  anybody  could  disbelieve  anything  after  a  sunset 
like  that.  Makes  me  believe  all  sorts  of  thing — gets  me 
going — I  imagine  I'm  all  sorts  of  places — on  the  Nile 
and  so  on." 

"Sure!  That's  just  it.  Everything's  so  peaceful  and 
natural.  Just  is.  Gives  the  imagination  enough  to  do, 
even  by  itself,  without  having  to  have  religion." 

"Well,"  reflected  Mr.  Wrenn,  "I  don't  hardly  ever  go  to 
church.  I  don't  believe  much  in  all  them  highbrow  ser 
mons  that  don't  come  down  to  brass  tacks — ain't  got 
nothing  to  do  with  real  folks."  But  just  the  same,  I  love 
to  go  up  to  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral.  Why,  I  get  real 
thrilled — I  hope  you  won't  think  I'm  trying  to  get  high- 
browed,  Mr.  Morton." 

"Why,  no.     Cer'nly  not.     I  understand.     Gwan." 

"It  gets  me  going  when  I  look  down  the  aisle  at  the 
altar  and  see  the  arches  and  so  on.  And  the  priests  in 
their  robes — they  look  so — so  way  up — oh,  I  dunno  just 
how  to  say  it — so  kind  of  uplifted." 

"Sure,  I  know.  Just  the  esthetic  end  of  the  game. 
Esthetic,  you  know — the  beauty  part  of  it." 

"  Yuh,  sure,  that's  the  word.  'Sthetic,  that's  what  it  is. 
Yes,  'sthetic.  But,  just  the  same,  it  makes  me  feel's 
though  I  believed  in  all  sorts  of  things." 

"Tell  you  what  I  believe  may  happen,  though," 
exulted  Morton.  "This  socialism,  and  maybe  even  these 
here  International  Workers  of  the  World,  may  pan  out 
as  a  new  kind  of  religion.  I  don't  know  much  about  it,, 

45 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

I  got  to  admit.  But  looks  as  though  it  might  be  that 
way.  It's  dead  certain  the  old  political  parties  are  just 
gangs — don't  stand  for  anything  except  the  name.  But 
this  comrade  business — good  stunt.  Brotherhood  of 
man — real  brotherhood.  My  idea  of  religion.  One  that 
is  because  it's  got  to  be,  not  just  because  it  always  has 
been.  Yessir,  me  for  a  religion  of  guys  working  together 
to  make  things  easier  for  each  other." 

"You  bet!"  commented  Mr.  Wrenn,  and  they  smote 
each  other  upon  the  shoulder  and  laughed  together  in  a 
fine  flame  of  shared  hope. 

"I  wish  I  knew  something  about  this  socialism  stuff," 
mused  Mr.  Wrenn,  with  tilted  head,  examining  the 
burnt-umber  edges  of  the  sunset. 

"Great  stuff.  Not  working  for  some  lazy  cuss  that's 
inherited  the  right  to  boss  you.  And  international 
brotherhood,  not  just  neighborhoods.  New  thing." 

"Gee!  I  surely  would  like  that,  awfully,"  sighed  Mr. 
Wrenn. 

He  saw  the  processional  of  world  brotherhood  tramp 
steadily  through  the  paling  sunset;  saffron- vestured 
Mandarin  marching  by  flax-faced  Norseman  and  languid 
South  Sea  Islander — the  diverse  peoples  toward  whom  he 
had  always  yearned. 

"But  I  don't  care  so  much  for  some  of  these  ranting 
street-corner  socialists,  though,"  mused  Morton.  "The 
kind  that  holler  'Come  get  saved  our  way  or  go  to  hell! 
Keep  off  scab  guides  to  prosperity.'" 

"Yuh,sure.     Ha!  ha!  ha!" 

"Huh!  huh!" 

Morton  soon  had  another  thought.  "Still,  same  time, 
us^guys  that  do  the  work  have  got  to  work  out  something 
for  ourselves.  We  can't  bank  on  the  rah-rah  boys  that 
wear  eye-glasses  and  condescend  to  like  us  'cause  they 
think  we  ain't  entirely  too  dirty  for  'em  to  associate  with, 
and  all  these  writer  guys  and  so  on.  That's  where  you 
got  to  hand  it  to  the  street-corner  shouters." 


THE   LAND   OF   ELSEWHERE 

"Yes,  that's  so.     Y'  right  there,  I  guess,  all  right." 

They  looked  at  each  other  and  laughed  again;  initiated 
friends;  tasting  each  other's  souls.  They  shared  sand 
wiches  and  confessions.  When  the  other  passengers  had 
gone  to  bed  and  the  sailors  on  watch  seemed  lonely  the 
two  men  were  still  declaring,  shyly  but  delightedly,  that 
"things  is  curious." 

In  the  damp  discomfort  of  early  morning  the  cattlemen 
shuffled  from  the  steamer  at  Portland  and  were  herded 
to  fa  lunch-room  by  the  boss,  who  cheerfully  smoked  his 
corn-cob  and  ejaculated  to  Mr.  Wrenn  and  Morton  such 
interesting  facts  as: 

"Trubiggs  is  a  lobster.  You  don't  want  to  let  the 
bosses  bluff  you  aboard  the  Merian.  They'll  try  to 
chase  you  in  where  the  steers  '11  gore  you.  The  grub  '11 
be " 

"What  grub  do  you  get?" 

"Scouse  and  bread.     And  water." 

"  What's  scouse?" 

"Beef  stew  without  the  beef.  Oh,  the  grub  '11  be 
rotten.  Trubiggs  is  a  lobster.  He  wouldn't  be  nowhere 
if  't  wa'n't  for  me." 

Mr.  Wrenn  appreciated  England's  need  of  roast  beef, 
but  he  timidly  desired  not  to  be  gored  by  steers,  wrhich 
seemed  imminent,  before  breakfast  coffee.  The  streets 
were  coldly  empty,  and  he  was  sleepy,  and  Morton  was 
silent.  At  the  restaurant,  sitting  on  a  high  stool  before 
a  pine  counter,  he  choked  over  an  egg  sandwich  made 
with  thick  crumby  slices  of  a  bread  that  had  no  person 
ality  to  it.  He  roved  forlornly  about  Portland,  beside  the 
gloomy  pipe-valiant  Morton,  fighting  two  fears:  the  com 
pany  might  not  need  all  of  them  this  trip,  and  he  might 
have  to  wait;  secondly,  if  he  incredibly  did  get  shipped 
and  started  for  England  the  steers  might  prove  dreadfully 
dangerous.  After  intense  thinking  he  ejaculated,  "Gee! 
it's  be  bored  or  get  gored."  Which  was  much  too  good 
not  to  tell  Morton,  so  they  laughed  very  much,  and  at 

47 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

ten  o'clock  were  signed  on  for  the  trip  and  led,  whooping, 
to  the  deck  of  the  S.S.  Merian. 

Cattle  were  still  struggling  down  the  chutes  from  the 
dock.  The  dirty  decks  were  confusingly  littered  with 
cordage  and  the  cattlemen's  luggage.  The  Jewish  elders 
stared  sepulchrally  at  the  wilderness  of  open  hatches  and 
rude  passageways,  as  though  they  were  prophesying 
death. 

But  Mr.  Wrenn,  standing  sturdily  beside  his  suit-case 
to  guard  it,  fawned  with  romantic  love  upon  the  rusty 
iron  sides  of  their  pilgrims'  caravel;  and  as  the  Merian 
left  the  wharf  with  no  more  handkerchief-waving  or  tears 
than  attends  a  ferry's  leaving  he  mumbled: 

"Free,  free,  out  to  sea.     Free,  free,  that's  me!" 

Then,  "Gee! ...  Gee  whittakers!" 


IV 

HE   BECOMES   THE   GREAT  LITTLE    BILL   WRENN 

WHEN  the  Merian  was  three  days  out  from  Portland 
the  frightened  cattleman  stiff  known  as  "Wrennie" 
wanted  to  die,  for  he  was  now  sure  that  the  smell  of  the 
fo'c'sle,  in  which  he  was  lying  on  a  thin  mattress  of  straw 
covered  with  damp  gunny-sacking,  both  could  and  would 
become  daily  a  thicker  smell,  a  stronger  smell,  a  smell 
increasingly  diverse  and  deadly. 

Though  it  was  so  late  as  eight  bells  of  the  evening, 
Pete,  the  tough  factory  hand,  and  Tim,  the  down-and-out 
hatter,  were  still  playing  seven-up  at  the  dirty  foVsle 
table,  while  McGarver,  under-boss  of  the  Morris  cattle 
gang,  lay  in  his  berth,  heavily  studying  the  game  and 
blowing  sulphurous  fumes  of  Lunch  Pail  Plug  Cut  tobacco 
up  toward  Wrennie. 

Pete,  the  tough,  was  very  evil.  He  sneered.  He  stole. 
He  bullied.  He  was  a  drunkard  and  a  person  without 
cleanliness  of  speech.  Tim,  the  hatter,  was  a  loud-talking 
weakling,  under  Pete's  domination.  Tim  wore  a  dirty 
rubber  collar  without  a  tie,  and  his  soul  was  like  his 
neckware. 

McGarver,  the  under-boss,  was  a  good  shepherd  among 
the  men,  though  he  had  recently  lost  the  head  foremanship 
by  a  spree  complicated  with  language  and  violence.  He 
looked  like  one  of  the  Merian  bulls,  with  broad  short  neck 
and  short  curly  hair  above  a  thick-skinned  deeply  wrinkled 
low  forehead.  He  never  undressed,  but  was  always  seen, 
as  now,  in  heavy  shoes  and  blue-gray  woolen  socks  tucked 

49 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

over  the  bottoms  of  his  overalls.  He  was  gruff  and  kind 
and  tyrannical  and  honest. 

Wrennie  shook  and  drew  his  breath  sharply  as  the  fog 
horn  yawped  out  its  "Whawn-n-n-n"  again,  reminding 
him  that  they  were  still  in  the  Bank  fog;  that  at  any  mo 
ment  they  were  likely  to  be  stunned  by  a  heart-stopping 
crash  as  some  liner's  bow  burst  through  the  fo'c'sle's  walls 
in  a  collision.  Bow-plates  buckling  in  and  shredding, 
the  in-thrust  of  an  enormous  black  bow,  water  flooding  in, 
cries  and— — -  However,  the  horn  did  at  least  show  that 
They  were  awake  up  there  on  the  bridge  to  steer  him 
through  the  fog;  and  weren't  They  experienced  seamen? 
Hadn't  They  made  this  trip  ever  so  many  times  and  never 
got  killed?  Wouldn't  They  take  all  sorts  of  pains  on 
Their  own  account  as  well  as  on  his  ? 

But — just  the  same,  would  he  really  ever  get  to  England 
alive?  And  if  he  did,  would  he  have  to  go  on  holding  his 
breath  in  terror  for  nine  more  days?  Would  the  fo'c'sle 
always  keep  heaving  up — up — up,  like  this,  then  down — 
down— down,  as  though  it  were  going  to  sink? 

"How  do  yuh  like  de  fog-horn,  Wrennie?" 

Pete,  the  tough,  spit  the  question  up  at  him  from  a 
corner  of  his  mouth.  "Hope  we  don't  run  into  no  ships." 

He  winked  at  Tim,  the  weakling  hatter,  who  took  the 
cue  and  mourned: 

"I'm  kinda  afraid  we're  going  to,  ain't  you,  Pete? 
The  mate  was  telling  me  he  was  scared  we  would." 

"Sures'  t'ing  you  know.  Hey,  Wrennie,  wait  till  youse 
have  to  beat  it  down-stairs  and  tie  up  a  bull  in  a  storm. 
Hully  gee!  Youse  '11  last  quick  on  de  game,  Birdie!" 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  snapped  Wrennie's  friend  Morton. 

But  Morton  was  seasick;  and  Pete,  not  heeding  him, 
outlined  other  dangers  which  he  was  happily  sure  were 
threatening  them.  Wrennie  shivered  to  hear  that  the 
"grub'd  git  worse."  He  writhed  under  Pete's  loud 
questions  about  his  loss,  in  some  cattle-pen,  of  the  gray- 
and-scarlet  sweater-jacket  which  he  had  proudly  and  gaily 

50 


GREAT   LITTLE    BILL   WRENN 

purchased  in  New  York  for  his  work  on  the  ship.  And 
the  card-players  assured  him  that  his  suit-case,  which  he 
had  intrusted  to  the  Croac  ship's  carpenter,  would  prob 
ably  be  stolen  by  "Satan." 

Satan!  Wrennie  shuddered  still  more.  For  Satan, 
the  gaunt-jawed  hook-nosed  rail-faced  head  foreman, 
diabolically  smiling  when  angry,  sardonically  sneering 
when  calm,  was  a  lean  human  whip-lash.  Pete  sniggered. 
He  dilated  upon  Satan's  wrath  at  Wrennie  for  not  "com 
ing  across"  with  ten  dollars  for  a  bribe  as  he,  Pete,  had 
done. 

(He  lied,  of  course.  And  his  words  have  not  been  given 
literally.  They  were  not  beautiful  words.) 

McGarver,  the  straw-boss,  would  always  lie  awrake  to 
enjoy  a  good  brisk  indecent  story,  but  he  liked  Wrennie's 
admiration  of  him,  so,  lunging  with  his  bull-like  head 
out  of  his  berth,  he  snorted: 

"Hey,  you,  Pete,  it's  time  to  pound  your  ear.  Cut  it 
out."  " 

Wrennie  called  down,  sternly,  "I  ain't  no  theological 
student,  Pete,  and  I  don't  mind  profanity,  but  I  wish 
you  wouldn't  talk  like  a  garbage-scow." 

"Hey,  Poicy,  did  yuh  bring  your  dictionary?"  Pete 
bellowed  to  Tim,  two  feet  distant  from  him.  To  Wrennie, 
"Say,  Gladys,  ain't  you  afraid  one  of  them  long  woids 
like  '  t'eological '  will  turn  around Jand  bite  you  right  on 
the  wrist?" 

"Dry  up!"  irritatedly  snapped  a  Canadian. 

"Aw,  cut  it  out,  you ,"  groaned  another. 

"Shut  up,"  added  McGarver,  the  straw-boss.  "Both 
of  you."  Raging:  "Gwan  to  bed,  Pete,  or  I'll  beat  your 
block  clean  off.  I  mean  it,  see?  Hear  me?'9 

Yes,  Pete  heard  him.  Doubtless  the  first  officer  on  the 
bridge  heard,  too,  and  perhaps  the  inhabitants  of  New 
foundland.  But  Pete  took  his  time  in  scratching  the 
back  of  his  neck  and  stretching  before  he  crawled  into 
his  berth.  For  half  an  hour  he  talked  softly  to  Tim,  for 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Wrennie's  benefit,  stating  his  belief  that  Satan,  the  head 
boss,  had  once  thrown  overboard  a  Jew  much  like  Wrennie, 
and  was  likely  thus  to  serve  Wrennie,  too.  Tim  pictured 
the  result  when,  after  the  capsizing  of  the  steamer  which 
would  undoubtedly  occur  if  this  long  sickening  motion 
kept  up,  Wrennie  had  to  take  to  a  boat  with  Satan. 

The  fingers  of  Wrennie  curled  into  shape  for  strangling 
some  one. 

When  Pete  was  asleep  he  worried  off  into  thin  slumber. 

Then,  there  was  Satan,  the  head  boss,  jerking  him  out 
of  his  berth,  stirring  his  cramped  joints  to  another  dawn 
of  drudgery — two  hours  of  work  and  two  of  waiting  before 
the  daily  eight-o'clock  insult  called  breakfast.  He  tugged 
on  his  shoes,  marveling  at  Mr.  Wrenn's  really  being  there, 
at  his  sitting  in  cramped  stoop  on  the  side  of  a  berth  in  a 
dark  filthy  place  that  went  up  and  down  like  a  freight 
elevator,  subject  to  the  orders  of  persons  whom  he  did  not 
in  the  least  like. 

Through  the  damp  gray  sea-air  he  staggered  hungrily 
along  the  gangway  to  the  hatch  amidships,  and  trembled 
down  the  iron  ladder  to  McGarver's  crew  'tween-decks. 

First,  watering  the  steers.  Sickened  by  walking  back 
ward  with  pails  of  water  he  carried  till  he  could  see  and 
think  of  nothing  in  the  world  save  the  water-butt,  the 
puddle  in  front  of  it,  and  the  cattlemen  mercilessly  dipping 
out  pails  there,  through  centuries  that  would  never  end. 
How  those  steers  did  drink! 

McGarver's  favorite  bull,  which  he  called  "the  Grena 
dier/'  took  ten  pails  and  still  persisted  in  leering  with 
dripping  gray  mouth  beyond  the  headboard,  trying  to 
reach  more.  As  Wrennie  was  carrying  a  pail  to  the 
heifers  beyond,  the  Grenadier's  horn  caught  and  tore  his 
overalls.  The  boat  lurched.  The  pail  whirled  out  of  his 
hand.  He  grasped  an  iron  stanchion  and  kicked  the 
Grenadier  in  the  jaw  till  the  steer  backed  off,  a  reformed 
character. 

McGarver  cheered,  for  such  kicks  were  a  rule  of  the  game. 

52 


GREAT   LITTLE    BILL   WRENN 

"Good  work,"  ironically  remarked  Tim,  the  weakling 
hatter. 

"You  go  to  hell,"  snapped  Wrennie,  and  Tim  looked 
much  more  respectful. 

But  Wrennie  lost  this  credit  before  they  had  finished 
feeding  out  the  hay,  for  he  grew  too  dizzy  to  resent  Tim's 
remarks. 

Straining  to  pitch  forkfuls  into  the  pens  while  the  boat 
rolled,  slopping  along  the  wet  gangway,  down  by  the 
bunkers  of  coal,  where  the  heat  seemed  a  close-wound 
choking  shroud  and  the  darkness  was  made  only  a  little 
pale  by  light  coming  through  dust-caked  port-holes,  he 
sneezed  and  coughed  and  grunted  till  he  was  exhausted. 
The  floating  bits  of  hay-dust  were  a  thousand  impish 
hands  with  poisoned  nails  scratching  at  the  roof  of  his 
mouth.  His  skin  prickled  all  over.  He  constantly  dis 
covered  new  and  aching  muscles.  But  he  wabbled  on 
until  he  finished  the  work,  fifteen  minutes  after  Tim  had 
given  out. 

He  crawled  up  to  the  main  deck  and  .huddled  in  the 
shelter  of  a  pile  of  hay-bales  where  Pete  was  declaring 
to  Tim  and  the  rest  that  Satan  "couldn't  never  get 
nothing  on  him." 

Morton  broke  into  Pete's  publicity  with  the  question, 
"Say,  is  it  straight  what  they  say,  Pete,  that  you're  the 
guy  that  owns  the  Leyland  Line  and  that's  why  you  know 
so  much  more  than  the  rest  of  us  poor  lollops?  Watson, 
the  needle,  quick!"  [Applause  and  laughter.] 

Wrennie  felt  personally  grateful  to  Morton  for  this, 
but  he  went  up  to  the  aft  top  deck,  where  he  could  lie 
alone  on  a  pile  of  tarpaulins.  He  made  himself  observe  the 
sea  which,  as  Kipling  and  Jack  London  had  specifically 
promised  him  in  their  stories,  surrounded  him,  every 
where  shining  free;  but  he  glanced  at  it  only  once.  To 
the  north  was  a  liner  bound  for  home. 

Home!  Gee!  That  was  rubbing  it  in!  While  at 
work,  whether  he  was  sick  or  not,  he  could  forget — things. 
5  53 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

But  the  liner,  fleeting  on  with  bright  ease,  made  the 
cattle-boat  seem  about  as  romantic  as  Mrs.  Zapp's 
kitchen  sink. 

Why,  he  wondered — "why  had  he  been  a  chump? 
Him  a  wanderer?  No;  he  was  a  hired  man  on  a  sea 
going  dairy-farm.  Well,  he'd  get  onto  this  confounded 
job  before  he  was  through  with  it,  but  then — gee!  back 
to  God's  Country!" 

While  the  Merian,  eleven  days  out,  pleasantly  rocked 
through  the  Irish  Sea,  with  the  moon  revealing  the  coast 
of  Anglesey,  one  Bill  Wrenn  lay  on  the  after-deck,  con 
descending  to  the  heavens.  It  was  so  warm  that  they 
did  not  need  to  sleep  below,  and  half  a  dozen  of  the 
cattlemen  had  brought  their  mattresses  up  on  deck. 
Beside  Bill  Wrenn  lay  the  man  who  had  given  him  that 
name — Tim,  the  hatter,  who  had  become  weakly  alarmed 
and  admiring  as  Wrennie  learned  to  rise  feeling  like  a  boy 
in  early  vacation-time,  and  to  find  shouting  exhilaration 
in  sending  a  forkful  of  hay  fifteen  good  feet. 

Morton,  who  lay  near  by,  had  also  adopted  the  name 
"Bill  Wrenn."  Most  of  the  trip  Morton  had  discussed 
Pete  and  Tim  instead  of  the  fact  that  "things  is  curious." 
Mr.  Wrenn  had  been  jealous  at  first,  but  when  he  learned 
from  Morton  the  theory  that  even  a  Pete  was  a  "victim  of 
'vironment"  he  went  out  for  knowing  him  quite  system 
atically. 

To  McGarver  he  had  been  "Bill  Wrenn"  since  the  fifth 
day,  when  he  had  kept  a  hay-bale  from  slipping  back 
into  the  hold  on  the  boss's  head.  Satan  and  Pete  still 
called  him  "Wrennie,"  but  he  was  not  thinking  about 
them  just  now  with  Tim  listening  admiringly  to  his 
observations  on  socialism. 

Tim  fell  asleep.  Bill  Wrenn  lay  quiet  and  let  memory 
color  the  sky  above  him.  He  recalled  the  gardens  of 
water  which  had  flowered  in  foam  for  him,  strange  ships 
and  nomadic  gulls,  and  the  schools  of  sleekly  black  por- 

54 


QREAT   LITTLE    BILL   WRENN 

poises  that,  for  him,  had  whisked  through  violet  waves. 
Most  of  all,  he  brought  back  the  yesterday's  long  excite 
ment  and  delight  of  seeing  the  Irish  coast  hills — his  first 
foreign  land — whose  faint  sky  fresco  had  seemed  magical 
with  the  elfin  lore  of  Ireland,  a  country  that  had  ever 
been  to  him  the  haunt  not  of  potatoes  and  politicians, 
but  of  fays.  He  had  wanted  fays.  They  were  not 
common  on  the  asphalt  of  West  Sixteenth  Street.  But 
now  he  had  seen  them  beckoning  in  Wanderland. 

He  was  falling  asleep  under  the  dancing  dome  of  the 
sky,  a  happy  Mr.  Wrenn,  when  he  was  aroused  as  a  furi 
ous  Bill,  the  cattleman.  Pete  was  clogging  near  by, 
singing  hoarsely,  "Dey  was  a  skoit  and  'er  name  was 
Goity." 

"You  shut  up!"  commanded   Bill  Wrenn. 

"Say,  be  careful!"  the  awakened  Tim  implored  of  him. 

Pete  snorted:  "Who  says  to  "shut  up,' hey?  Who  was 
it,  ..Satan?" 

From  the  capstan,  where  he  was  still  smoking,  the 
head  foreman  muttered:  "What's  the  odds?  The  little 
man  won't  say  it  again." 

Pete  stood  by  Bill  Wrenn's  mattress.  "Who  said 
'shut  up'?"  sounded  ominously. 

Bill  popped  out  of  bed  with  what  he  regarded  as  a 
vicious  fighting-crouch.  For  he  was  too  sleepy  to  be 
afraid.  "I  did!  What  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  More 
mildly,  as  a  fear  of  his  own  courage  began  to  form,  "I 
want  to  sleep." 

"Oh!  You  want  to  sleep.  Little  mollycoddle  wants 
to  sleep,  does  he?  Come  here!" 

The  tough  grabbed  at  Bill's  shirt-collar  across  the 
mattress.  Bill  ducked,  stuck  out  his  arm  wildly,  and 
struck  Pete,  half  by  accident.  Roaring,  Pete  bunted 
him,  and  he  went  down,  with  Pete  kneeling  on  his  stomach 
and  pounding  him. 

Morton  and  honest  McGarver,  the  straw-boss,  sprang 
to  drag  off  Pete,  while  Satan,  the  panther,  with  the  first 

55 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

interest  they  had  ever  seen  in  his  eyes,  snarled:    "Let 
'em  fight  fair.     Rounds.    You're  a'  right,  Bill." 

"Right,"  commended  Morton. 

Armored  with  Satan's  praise,  firm  but  fearful  in  his 
rubber  sneakers,  surprised  and  shocked  to  find  himself 
here  doing  this,  Bill  Wrenn  squared  at  the  rowdy.  The 
moon  touched  sadly  the  lightly  sketched  Anglesey  coast 
and  the  rippling  wake,  but  Bill  Wrenn,  oblivious  of  dream 
moon  and  headland,  faced  his  fellow-bruiser. 

They  circled.  Pete  stuck  out  his  foot  gently.  Morton 
sprang  in,  bawling  furiously,  "None  o'  them  rough-and- 
tumble  tricks." 

"Right-o,"  added  McGarver. 

Pete  scowled.  He  was  left  powerless.  He  puffed  and 
grew  dizzy  as  Bill  Wrenn  danced  delicately  about  him,  for 
he  could  do  nothing  without  back-street  tactics.  He  did 
bloody  the  nose  of  Bill  and  pummel  his  ribs,  but  many 
cigarettes  and  much  whisky  told,  and  he  was  ready  to 
laugh  foolishly  and  make  peace  when,  at  the  end  of  the 
sixth  round,  he  felt  Bill's  neat  little  fist  in  a  straight 
—  and  entirely  accidental  —  rip  to  the  point  of  his 
jaw. 

Pete  sent  his  opponent  spinning  with  a  back-hander 
which  awoke  all  the  cruelty  of  the  terrible  Bill.  Silently 
Bill  Wrenn  plunged  in  with  a  smash!  smash!  smash!  like 
a  murderous  savage,  using  every  grain  of  his  strength. 

Let  us  turn  from  the  lamentable  luck  of  Pete.  He  had 
now  got  the  idea  that  his  supposed  victim  could  really 
fight.  Dismayed,  shocked,  disgusted,  he  stumbled  and 
sought  to  flee,  and  was  sent  flat. 

This  time  it  was  the  great  little  Bill  who  had  to  be 
dragged  off.  McGarver  held  him,  kicking  and  yammering, 
his  mild  mustache  bristling  like  a  battling  cat's,  till  the 
next  round,  when  Pete  was  knocked  out  by  a  clumsy 
whirlwind  of  fists. 

He  lay  on  the  deck,  with  Bill  standing  over  him  and 
demanding,  "What's  my  name,  heh?" 

56 


GREAT   LITTLE    BILL   WRENN 

"I  t'ink  it's  Bill  now,  all  right,  Wrennie,  old  boss — Bill, 
old  boss,"  groaned  Pete. 

He  was  permitted  to  sneak  off  into  oblivion. 

Bill  Wrenn  went  below.  In  the  dark  passage  by  the 
fidley  be  fell  to  tremorous  weeping.  But  the  brackish 
hydrant  water  that  stopped  his  nose-bleed  saved  him  from 
hysterics.  He  climbed  to  the  top  deck,  and  now  he 
could  again  see  his  brother  pilgrim,  the  moon. 

The  stiffs  and  bosses  were  talking  excitedly  of  the 
fight.  Tim  rushed  up  to  gurgle:  "Great,  Bill,  old  man! 
You  done  just  what  I'd  'a'  done  if  he'd  cussed  me.  I 
told  you  Pete  was  a  bluffer." 

"Git  out,"  said  Satan. 

Tim  fled. 

Morton  came  up,  looked  at  Bill  Wrenn,  pounded  him 
on  the  shoulder,  and  went  off  to  his  mattress.  The  other 
stiffs  slouched  away,  but  McGarver  and  Satan  were  still 
discussing  the  fight. 

Snuggling  on  the  hard  black  pile  of  tarpaulins,  Bill 
talked  to  them,  warmed  to  them,  and  became  Mr.  Wrenn. 
He  announced  his  determination  to  wander  adown  every 
shining  road  of  Europe. 

"Nice  work."  "Sure."  "You'll  make  a  snappy  little 
ole  globe-trotter."  "Sure;  ought  to  be  able  to  get  the 
slickest  kind  of  grub  for  four  bits  a  day."  "Nice  work," 
Satan  interjected  from  time  to  time,  with  smooth  irony. 
"Sure.  Go  ahead.  Like  to  hear  your  plans." 

McGarver  broke  in:  " Cut  that  out,  Marvin.  You're  a 
'Satan'  all  right.  Quit  your  kidding  the  little  man.  He's 
all  right.  And  he  done  fine  on  the  job  last  three-four 
days." 

Lying  on  his  mattress,  Bill  stared  at  the  network  of  the 
ratlines  against  the  brilliant  sky.  The  crisscross  lines 
made  him  think  of  the  ruled  order-blanks  of  the  Souvenir 
Company. 

"Gee!"  he  mused,  "I'd  like  to  know  if  Jake  is  handling 
my  work  the  way  we — they — like  it.  I'd  like  to  see  the 

57 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

old  office  again,  and  Charley  Carpenter,  just  for  a  couple 
of  minutes.  Gee!  I  wish  they  could  have  seen  me  put  it 
all  over  Pete  to-night!  That's  what  Fm  going  to  do  to  the 
blooming  Englishmen  if  they  don't  like  me." 

The  S.S.  Merian  panted  softly  beside  the  landing-stage 
at  Birkenhead,  Liverpool's  Jersey  City,  resting  in  the 
sunshine  after  her  voyage,  while  the  cattle  were  unloaded. 
They  had  encountered  fog-banks  at  the  mouth  of  the 
Mersey  River.  Mr.  Wrenn  had  ecstatically  watched  the 
shores  of  England — England! — ride  at  him  through  the 
fog,  and  had  panted  over  the  lines  of  English  villas  among 
the  dunes.  It  was  like  a  dream,  yet  the  shore  had  fsuch 
amazingly  safe  solid  colors,  real  red  and  green  and  yellow, 
when  contrasted  with  the  fog-wet  deck  unearthily  glancing 
with  mist-lights. 

Now  he  was  seeing  his  first  foreign  city,  and  to  Morton, 
stolidly  curious  beside  him,  he  could  say  nothing  save 
"Gee!"  With  church-tower  and  swarthy  dome  behind 
dome,  Liverpool  lay  across  the  Mersey.  Up  through  the 
Liverpool  streets  that  ran  down  to  the  river,  as  though 
through  peep-holes  slashed  straight  back  into  the  Middle 
Ages,  his  vision  plunged,  and  it  wandered  unchecked 
through  each  street  while  he  hummed: 

"Free,  free,  in  Eu-ro-pee,  that's  me!9' 

The  cattlemen  were  called  to  help  unload  the  remaining 
hay.  They  made  a  game  of  it.  Even  Satan  smiled,  even  the 
Jewish  elders  were  lightly  affable  as  they  made  pretendedly 
fierce  gestures  at  the  squat  patient  hay-bales.  Tim,  the 
hatter,  danced  a  limber  foolish  jig  upon  the  deck,  and 
McGarver  bellowed,  "The  bon-nee  bon-nee  banks  of 
Loch  Lo-o-o-o-mond." 

The  crowd  bawled:  "Come  on,  Bill  Wrenn;  your  turn. 
Hustle  up  with  that  bale,  Pete,  or  we'll  sic  Bill  on 
you." 

Bill  Wrenn,  standing  very  dignified,  piped:  "I'm  Colo 
nel  Armour.  I  own  all  these  cattle,  'cept  the  Morris  uns, 


GREAT   LITTLE    BILL   WRENN 

see?  Gotta  do  what  I  say,  savvy?  Tim,  walk  on  your 
ear." 

;  The  hatter  laid  his  head  on  the  deck  and  waved  his 
anemic  legs  in  accordance  with  directions  from  Colonel 
Armour  (late  Wrenn). 

!  The  hay  was  off.  The  Merian  tooted  and  headed  across 
the  Mersey  to  the  Huskinson  Dock,  in  Liverpool,  while 
the  cattlemen  played  tag  about  the  deck.  Whooping  and 
laughing,  ;they  made  last  splashy  toilets  at  the  water-butts, 
dragged  out  their  luggage,  and  descended  to  the  dock- 
house. 

As  the  cattlemen  passed  Bill  Wrenn  and  Morton, 
shouting  affectionate  good-bys  in  English  or  courteous 
Yiddish,  Bill  commented  profanely  to  Morton  on  the 
fact  that  the  solid  stone  floor  of  the  great  shed  seemed 
to  have  enough  sea-motion  to  "make  a  guy  sick."  It  was 
nearly  his  last  utterance  as  Bill  Wrenn.  He  became  Mr. 
Wrenn,  absolute  Mr.  Wrenn,  on  the  street,  as  he  saw  a  real 
English  bobby,  a  real  English  carter,  and  the  sign,  "Cocoa 
House.  Tea  id" 

England! 

"Now  for  some  real  grub!"  cried  Morton.  "No  more 
scouse  and  willow-leaf  tea." 

Stretching  out  their  legs  under  a  table  glorified  with 
toasted  Sally  Lunns  and  Melton  Mowbrays,  served  by  a 
waitress  who  said  "Thank  you"  with  a  rising  inflection, 
they  gazed  at  the  line  of  mirrors  running  Britishly  all 
around  the  room  over  the  long  lounge  seat,  and  smiled 
with  the  triumphant  content  which  comes  to  him  whose 
hunger  for  dreams  and  hunger  for  meat-pies  are  satisfied 
together. 


HE   FINDS  MUCH  QUAINT  ENGLISH   FLAVOR 

G  wharves,  all  right.  England  sure  is  queen  of 
the  sea,  hen?  Busy  town,  Liverpool.  But,  say, 
there  is  a  quaint  English  flavor  to  these  shops.  .  .  .  Look 
at  that:  'Red  Lion  Inn/  .  .  .  'Overhead  trams'  they  call 
the  elevated.  Real  flavor,  all  right.  English  as  can  be? 
...  I  sure  like  to  wander  around  these  little  shops.  Street 
crowd.  That's  where  you  get  the  real  quaint  flavor." 

Thus  Morton,  to  the  glowing  Mr.  Wrenn,  as  they  turned 
into  St.  George's  Square,  noting  the  Lipton's  Tea  estab 
lishment.  Sir  Thomas  Lipton — wasn't  he  a  friend  of  the 
king  ?  Anyway,  he  was  some  kind  of  a  lord,  and  he  owned 
big  society  racing-yachts. 

In  the  grandiose  square  Mr.  Wrenn  prayerfully  re 
marked,  "Gee!" 

"Greek  temple.     Fine,"  agreed  Morton. 

"That's  St.  George's  Hall,  where  they  have  big 
organ  concerts,"  explained  Mr.  Wrenn.  "And  there's 
the  art-gallery  across  the  Square,  and  here's  the  Lime 
Street  Station."  He  had  studied  his  Baedeker  as  club 
women  study  the  cyclopedia.  "Let's  go  over  and  look 
at  the  trains." 

"Funny  little  boxes,  ain't  they,  Wrenn,  them  cars! 
Quaint  things.  What  is  it  they  call  'em — carriages? 
First,  second,  third  class.  .  . ." 

"Just  like  in  books." 

"Booking-office.     That's  tickets.  .  .  .  Funny,  eh?" 

Mr.  Wrenn  insisted  on  paying  for  both  their  high  teas 

60 


ENGLISH    FLAVOR 

at  the  cheap  restaurant,  timidly  but  earnestly.  Morton 
was  troubled.  As  they  sat  on  a  park  bench,  smoking  those 
most  Anglican  cigarettes,  "  Dainty  Bits,"  Mr.  Wrenn 
begged: 

"What's  the  matter,  old  man?" 

"Oh,  nothing.  Just  thinking."  Morton  smiled  ar 
tificially.  He  added,  presently:  "Well,  old  Bill,  got  to 
make  the  break.  Can't  go  on  living  on  you  this  way." 

"Aw,  thunder!  You  ain't  living  on  me.  Besides,  I 
want  you  to.  Honest  I  do.  We  can  have  a  whole  lot 
better  time  together,  Morty." 

"Yes,  but Nope;  I  can't  do  it.  Nice  of  you. 

Can't  do  it,  though.  Got  to  go  on  my  own,  like  the 
fellow  says." 

"Aw,  come  on.  Look  here;  it's  my  money,  ain't  it? 
I  got  a  right  to  spend  it  the  way  I  want  to,  haven't  I? 
Aw,  come  on.  We'll  bum  along  together,  and  then  when 
the  money  is  gone  we'll  get  some  kind  of  job  together. 
Honest,  I  want  you  to." 

"Hunka.  Don't  believe  you'd  care  for  the  kind  of 
knockabout  jobs  I'll  have  to  get." 

"Sure  I  would.     Aw,  come  on,  Morty.     I 

"  You're  too  level-headed  to  like  to  bum  around  like  a 
fool  hobo.  You'd  darn  soon  get  tired  of  it." 

"What  if  I  did  ?  Morty,  look  here.  I've  been  learning 
something  on  this  trip.  I've  always  wanted  to  just  do  one 
thing — see  foreign  places.  Well,  I  want  to  do  that  just 
as  much  as  ever.  But  there's  something  that's  a  whole 
lot  more  important.  Somehow,  I  ain't  ever  had  many 
friends.  Some  ways  you're  about  the  best  friend  I've 
ever  had — you  ain't  neither  too  highbrow  or  too  lowbrow. 
And  this  friendship  business — it  means  such  an  awful  lot. 
It's  like  what  I  was  reading  about — something  by  Elbert 
Hubbard  or — thunder,  I  can't  remember  his  name,  but, 
anyway,  it's  one  of  those  poet  guys  that  writes  for  the 
back  page  of  the  Journal — something  about  a  joyous 
adventure.  That's  what  being  friends  is.  Course  you. 

61 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

understand  I  wouldn't  want  to  say  this  to  most  people, 
but  you'll  understand  how  I  mean.  It's — this  friendship 
business  is  just  like  those  old  crusaders— ^-you  know — 
they'd  start  out  on  a  fine  morning — you  know;  armor 
shining,  all  that  stuff.  It  wouldn't  make  any  dif.  what 
they  met  as  long  as  they  was  fighting  together.  Rainy 
nights  with  folks  sneaking  through  the  rain  to  get  at  'em, 
and  all  sorts  of  things — ready  for  anything,  long  as  they 
just  stuck  together.  That's  the  way  this  friendship 
business  is,  I  b'lieve.  Just  like  it  said  in  the  Journal. 

Yump,  sure  is.     Gee!  it's Chance  to  tell  folks  what 

you  think  and  really  get  some  fun  out  of  seeing  places 
together.  And  I  ain't  ever  done  it  much.  Course  I  don't 
mean  to  say  I've  been  living  off  on  any  blooming  desert 
island  all  my  life,  but,  just  the  same,  I've  always  been 
kind  of  alone — not  knowing  many  folks.  You  know  how 

it  is  in  a  New  York  rooming-house.     So  now Aw, 

don't  slip  up  on  me,  Morty.  Honestly,  I  don't  care  what 
kind  of  work  we  do  as  long  as  we  can  stick  together;  I 
don't  care  a  hang  if  we  don't  get  anything  better  to  do 
than  scrub  floors!" 

Morton  patted  his  arm  and  did  not  answer  for  a  while. 
Then: 

"Yuh,  I  know  how  you  mean.  And  it's  good  of  you  to 
like  beating  it  around  with  me.  But  you  sure  got  the 
exaggerated  idee  of  me.  And  you'd  get  sick  of  the  holes 
I'm  likely  to  land  in." 

There  was  a  certain  pride  which  seemed  dreadfully  to 
shut  Mr.  Wrenn  out  as  Morton  added: 

"Why,  man,  I'm  going  to  do  all  of  Europe.  From  the 
Turkish  jails  to — oh,  St.  Petersburg. . .  .You  made  good  on 
the  Merian,  all  right.  But  you  do  like  things  shipshape." 

"Oh,  I  d " 

"We  might  stay  friends  if  we  busted  up  now  and  met 
in  New  York  again.  But  not  if  you  get  into  all  sorts  of 
bum  places  w " 

"Why,  look  here,  Morty " 

62 


ENGLISH    FLAVOR 

" — with  me.  .  .  .  However,  I'll  think  it  over.  Let's  not 
talk  about  it  till  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  please  do  think  it  over,  Morty,  old  man,  won't 
you?  And  to-night  you'll  let  me  take  you  to  a  music- 
hall,  won't  you?" 

"Uh — yes,"  Morton  hesitated. 

A  music-hall — not  mere  vaudeville!  Mr.  Wrenn  could 
hardly  keep  his  feet  on  the  pavement  as  they  scampered 
to  it  and  got  ninepenny  seats.  He  would  have  thought 

it  absurd  to  pay  eighteen  cents  for  a  ticket,  but  pence 

They  were  out  at  nine-thirty.  Happily  tired,  Mr.  Wrenn 
suggested  that  they  go  to  a  temperance  hotel  at  his 
expense,  for  he  had  read  in  Baedeker  that  temperance 
hotels  were  respectable — also  cheap. 

"No,  no!"  frowned  Morton.  "Tell  you  what  you  do, 
Bill.  You  go  to  a  hotel,  and  I'll  beat  it  down  to  a  lodging- 
house  on  Duke  Street. . . .  Juke  Street! .  . .  Remember  how 
I  ran  onto  Pete  on  the  street?  He  told  me  you  could  get 
a  cot  down  there  for  fourpence." 

"Aw,  come  on  to  a  hotel.  Please  dot  It  'd  just  hurt 
me  to  think  of  you  sleeping  in  one  of  them  holes.  I 
wouldn't  sleep  a  bit  if " 

"  Say,  for  the  love  of  Mike,  Wrenn,  get  wise !  Get  wise, 
son!  I'm  not  going  to  sponge  on  you,  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  it." 

Bill  Wrenn  strode  into  their  company  for  a  minute, 
and  quoth  the  terrible  Bill: 

"Well,  you  don't  need  to  get  so  sore  about  it.  I  don't 
go  around  asking  folks  can  I  give  'em  a  meal  ticket  all 

the  time,  let  me  tell  you,  and  when  I  do Oh  rats! 

Say,  I  didn't  mean  to  get  huffy,  Morty.  But,  doggone 
you,  old  man,  you  can't  shake  me  this  easy.  I  sye,  old 
top,  I'm  peeved;  yessir.  We'll  go  Dutch  to  a  lodging- 
house,  or  even  walk  the  streets." 

"All  right,  sir;  all  right.  I'll  take  you  up  on  that. 
We'll  sleep  in  an  areaway  some  place." 

They  walked  to  the  outskirts  of  Liverpool,  questing 

63 


OUR    MR.   WRENN 

the  desirable  dark  alley.  Awed  by  the  solid  quietude  and 
semigrandeur  of  the  large  private  estates,  through  narrow 
streets  where  dim  trees  leaned  over  high  walls  whose  long 
silent  stretches  were  broken  only  by  mysterious  little 
doors,  they  tramped  bashfully,  inspecting,  but  always  re 
jecting,  nooks  by  lodge  gates. 

They  came  to  a  stone  church  with  a  porch  easily  reached 
from  the  street,  a  large  and  airy  stone  porch,  just  suited, 
Morton  declared,  "to  a  couple  of  hoboes  like  us.  If  a 
bobby  butts  in,  why,  we'll  just  slide  under  them  seats. 
Then  the  bobby  can  go  soak  his  head." 

Mr.  Wrenn  had  never  so  far  defied  society  as  to  steal 
a  place  for  sleeping.  He  felt  very  uneasy,  like  a  man  left 
naked  on  the  street  by  robbers,  as  he  rolled  up  his  coat 
for  a  pillow  and  removed  his  shoes  in  a  place  that  was 
perfectly  open  to  the  street.  The  paved  floor  was  cold  to 
his  bare  feet,  and,  as  he  tried  to  go  to  sleep,  it  kept  getting 
colder  and  colder  to  his  back.  Reaching  out  his  hand, 
he  fretfully  rubbed  the  cracks  between  stones.  He 
scowled  up  at  the  ceiling  of  the  porch.  He  couldn't  bear 
to  look  out  through  the  door,  for  it  framed  the  vicar's 
house,  with  lamplight  bodying  forth  latticed  windows, 
suggesting  soft  beds  and  laughter  and  comfortable  books. 
All  the  while  his  chilled  back  was  aching  in  new  places. 

He  sprang  up,  put  on  his  shoes,  and  paced  the  church 
yard.  It  seemed  a  great  waste  of  educational  advantages 
not  to  study  the  tower  of  this  foreign  church,  but  he 
thought  much  more  about  his  aching  shoulder-blades. 

Morton  came  from  the  porch  stiff"  but  grinning. 
"Didn't  like  it  much,  eh,  Bill?  Afraid  you  wouldn't. 
Must  say  I  didn't  either,  though.  Well,  come  on.  Let's 
beat  it  around  and  see  if  we  can't  find  a  better  place." 

In  a  vacant  lot  they  discovered  a  pile  of  hay.  Mr. 
Wrenn  hardly  winced  at  the  hearty  slap  Morton  gave  his 
back,  and  he  pronounced,  "Some  Waldorf-Astoria,  that 
stack!"  as  they  sneaked  into  the  lot.  They  had  laid  lov 
ing  hands  upon  the  hay,  remarking,  "Well,  I  guess!"  when 


ENGLISH    FLAVOR 

they  heard  from   a   low   stable    at    the   very   back   of 
the  lot: 

"I  say,  you  chaps,  what  are  you  doing  there?" 

A  reflective  carter,  who  had  been  twisting  two  straws, 
ambled  out  of  the  shadow  of  the  stable  and  prepared  to 
do  battle. 

"  Say,  old  man,  can't  we  sleep  in  your  hay  just  to-night  ?" 
argued  Morton.  "We're  Americans.  Came  over  on  a 
cattle-boat.  We  ain't  got  only  enough  money  to  last  us 
for  food,"  while  Mr.  Wrenn  begged,  "Aw,  please  let  us." 

"Oh!  You're  Americans,  are  you?  You  seem  decent 
enough.  I've  got  a  brother  in  the  States.  He  used  to 
own  this  stable  with  me.  In  St.  Cloud,  Minnesota,  he  is, 
you  know.  Minnesota's  some  kind  of  a  shire.  Either 
of  you  chaps  been  in  Minnesota?" 

"Sure,"  lied  Morton;    "I've  hunted  bear  there." 

"Oh,  I  say,  bear  now!  My  brother's  never  written 
m- 

"Oh,  that  was  way  up  in  the  northern  part,  in  the  Big 
Woods.  I've  had  some  narrow  escapes." 

Then  Morton,  who  had  never  been  west  of  Pittsburg, 
sang  somewhat  in  this  wise  the  epic  of  the  hunting  he  had 
never  done: 

Alone.  Among  the  pines.  Dead  o'  winter.  Only  one 
shell  in  his  rifle.  Cold  of  winter.  Snow — deep  snow. 
Snow-shoes.  Hiking  along — reg'lar  mushing — packing 
grub  to  the  lumber-camp.  Way  up  near  the  Canadian 
border.  Cold,  terrible  cold.  Stars  looked  like  little  bits 
of  steel. 

Mr.  Wrenn  thought  he  remembered  the  story.  He  had 
read  it  in  a  magazine.  Morton  was  continuing: 

Snow  stretched  out  among  the  pines.  He  was  wearing  a 
Mackinaw  and  shoe-packs.  Saw  a  bear  loping  along. 
He  had — Morton  had — a  .44-40  Marlin,  but  only  one 
shell.  Thrust  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle  right  into  the  bear's 
mouth.  Scared  for  a  minute.  Almost  fell  off  his  snow- 
shoes.  Hardest  thing  he  ever  did,  to  pull  that  trigger. 

65 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Fired.     Bear  sort  of  jumped  at  him,  then  rolled  over, 
clawing.     Great  place,  those  Minnesota  Big 

"What's  a  shoe-pack?"  the  Englishman  stolidly  inter 
jected. 

"Kind  of  a  moccasin.  .  .  .  Great  place,  those  woods. 
Hope  your  brother  gets  the  chance  to  get  up  there." 

ff  I  say,  I  wonder  did  you  ever  meet  him?     Scrabble  is 
his  name,  Jock  Scrabble." 

"Jock  Scrabble — no,  but  say!  By  golly,  there  was  a 
fellow  up  in  the  Big  Woods  that  came  from  St.  Cl —  St. 
Cloud?  Yes,  that  was  it.  He  was  telling  us  about  the 
town.  I  remember  he  said  your  brother  had  great 
chances  there." 

The  Englishman  meditatively  accepted  a  bad  cigar  from 
Mr.  Wrenn.  Suddenly:  "You  chaps  can  sleep  in  the 
stable-loft  if  you'd  like.  But  you  must  blooming  well 
stop  smoking." 

So  in  the  dark  odorous  hay-mow  Mr.  Wrenn  stretched 
out  his  legs  with  an  affectionate  "good  night"  to  Morton. 
He  slept  nine  hours.  When  he  awoke,  at  the  sound  of  a 
chain  clanking  in  the  stable  below,  Morton  was  gone. 
This  note  was  pinned  to  his  sleeve: 

DEAR  OLD  MAN, — I  still  feel  sure  that  you  will  not  enjoy  the 
hiking.  Bumming  is  not  much  fun  for  most  people,  I  don't 
think,  even  if  they  say  it  is.  I  do  not  want  to  live  on  you.  I 
always  did  hate  to  graft  on  people.  So  I  am  going  to  beat  it 
off  alone.  But  I  hope  I  will  see  you  in  N  Y  &  we  will  enjoy 
many  a  good  laugh  together  over  our  trip.  If  you  will  phone 
the  P.  R.  R.  you  can  find  out  when  I  get  back  &  so  on.  As 
I  do  not  know  what  your  address  will  be.  Please  look  me  up 
&  I  hope  you  will  have  a  good  trip. 

Yours  truly, 

HARRY  P.  MORTON. 

Mr.  Wrenn  lay  listening  to  the  unfriendly  rattling  of  the 
chain  harness  below  for  a  long  time.  When  he  crawled 
languidly  down  from  the  hay-loft  he  glowered  in  a  manner 
which  was  decidedly  surly  even  for  Bill  Wrenn  at  a  middle- 

66 


ENGLISH    FLAVOR 

aged  English  stranger  who  was  stooping  over  a  cow's  hoof 
in  a  stall  facing  the  ladder. 

"Wot  you  doing  here?"  asked  the  Englishman,  raising 
his  head  and  regarding  Mr.  Wrenn  as  a  housewife  does  a 
cockroach  in  the  salad-bowl. 

Mr.  Wrenn  was  bored.  This  seemed  a  very  poor  sort 
of  man;  a  bloated  Cockney,  with  a  dirty  neck-cloth,  vile 
cuffs  of  grayish  black,  and  a  waistcoat  cut  foolishly  high. 

"The  owner  said  I  could  sleep  here,"  he  snapped. 

"Ow.  'E  did,  did  'e?  JE  ayn't  been  giving  you  any 
of  the  perishin'  'osses,  too,  'as  'e?" 

It  was  sturdy  old  Bill  Wrenn  who  snarled,  "Oh,  shut* 
up!"     Bill    didn't    feel   like    standing    much   just    then. 
He'd  punch  this  fellow  as  he'd  punched  Pete,*  as  soon  as 
not — or  even  sooner. 

"Ow.  .  .  .  It's  shut  up,  is  it?  ...  I've  'arf  a  mind  to  set 
the  'tecs  on  you,  but  I'm  lyte.  I'll  just  'it  you  on  the 
bloody  nowse." 

Bill  Wrenn  stepped  off  the  ladder  and  squared  at  him. 
He  was  sorry  that  the  Cockney  was  smaller  than  Pete. 
feThe  Cockney  came  over,  feinted  in  an  absent-minded 
manner,  made  swift  and  confusing  circles  with  his  left 
hand,  and  hit  Bill  Wrenn  on  the  aforesaid  bloody  nose, 
which  immediately  became  a  bleeding  nose.  Bill  Wrenn 
felt  dizzy  and,  sitting  on  a  grain-sack,  listened  amazedly 
to  the  Cockney's  apologetic: 

"I'm  sorry  I  ayn't  got  time  to  'ave  the  law  on  you,  but 
I  could  spare  time  to  'it  you  again." 

Bill  shook  the  blood  from  his  nose  and  staggered  at  the 
Cockney,  who  seized  his  collar,  set  him  down  outside  the 
stable  with  a  jarring  bump,  and  walked  away,  whistling: 

"Come,  oh  come  to  our  Sunday-school, 
Ev-v-v-v-v-v-ry  Sunday  morn-ing." 

"Gee!"  mourned  Mr.  William  Wrenn,  "and  I  thought 
I  was  getting  this  hobo  business  down  pat.  .  .  .  Gee!  I 
wonder  if  Pete  was  so  hard  to  lick?" 


VI 

HE   IS  AN  ORPHAN 

SADLY  clinging  to  the  plan  of  the  walking  -  trip  he 
was  to  have  made  with  Morton,  Mr.  Wrenn  crossed 
by  ferry  to  Birkenhead,  quite  unhappily,  for  he  wanted 
to  be  discussing  with  Morton  the  quaintness  of  the 
uniformed  functionaries.  He  looked  for  the  Merian  half 
the  way  over.  As  he  walked  through  Birkenhead,  bound 
for  Chester,  he  pricked  himself  on  to  note  red-brick  house- 
rows,  almost  shocking  in  their  lack  of  high  front  stoops. 
Along  the  country  road  he  reflected:  "Wouldn't  Morty 
enjoy  this!  Farm-yard  all  paved.  Haystack  with  a  little 
roof  on  it.  Kitchen  stove  stuck  in  a  kind  of  fireplace. 
Foreign  as  the  deuce." 

But  Morton  was  off  some  place,  in  a  darkness  where 
there  weren't  things  to  enjoy.  Mr.  Wrenn  had  lost  him 
forever.  Once  he  heard  himself  wishing  that  even  Tim, 
the  hatter,  or  "good  old  McGarver"  were  along.  A 
scene  so  British  that  it  seemed  proper  to  enjoy  it  alone 
he  did  find  in  a  real  garden-party,  with  what  appeared  to 
be  a  real  curate,  out  of  a  story  in  The  Strand,  passing  tea 
cups;  but  he  passed  out  of  that  hot  glow  into  a  cold 
plodding  that  led  him  to  Chester  and  a  dull  hotel  which 
might  as  well  have  been  in  Bridgeport  or  Hoboken. 

He  somewhat  timidly  enjoyed  Chester  the  early  part 
of  the  next  day,  docilely  following  a  guide  about  the  walls, 
gaping  at  the  mill  on  the  Dee  and  asking  the  guide  two 
intelligent  questions  about  Roman  remains.  He  snooped 
through  the  galleried  streets,  peering  up  dark  stairways 

68 


HE    IS   AN   ORPHAN 

set  in  heavy  masonry  that  spoke  of  historic  sieges,  and 
imagined  that  he  was  historically  besieging.  For  a  time 
Mr.  Wrenn's  fancies  contented  him. 

He  smiled  as  he  addressed  glossy  red  and  green  post 
cards  to  Lee  Theresa  and  Goaty,  Cousin  John  and  Mr. 
Guilfogle,  writing  on  each  a  variation  of  "Having  a 
splendid  trip.  This  is  a  very  interesting  old  town. 
Wish  you  were  here."  Pantingly,  he  found  a  panorama 
showing  the  hotel  where  he  was  staying — or  at  least  two 
of  its  chimneys — and,  marking  it  with  a  heavy  cross  and 
the  announcement  "This  is  my  hotel  where  I  am  stay 
ing,"  he  sent  it  to  Charley  Carpenter. 

He  was  at  his  nearest  to  greatness  at  Chester  Cathedral. 
He  chuckled  aloud  as  he  passed  the  remains  of  a  refectory 
of  monastic  days,  in  the  close,  where  knights  had  tied  their 
romantically  pawing  chargers,  "just  like  he'd  read  about 
in  a  story  about  the  olden  times."  He  was  really  there. 
He  glanced  about  and  assured  himself  of  it.  He  wasn't 
in  the  office.  He  was  in  an  English  cathedral  close! 

But  shortly  thereafter  he  was  in  an  English  temperance 
hotel,  sitting  still,  almost  weeping  with  the  longing  to  see 
Morton.  He  walked  abroad,  feeling  like  an  intruder  on 
the  lively  night  crowd;  in  a  tap-room  he  drank  a  glass  of 
English  porter  and  tried  to  make  himself  believe  that  he 
was  acquainted  with  the  others  in  the  room,  to  which 
theory  they  gave  but  little  support.  All  this  while  his 
loneliness  shadowed  him. 

Of  that  loneliness  one  could  make  many  books;  how  it 
sat  down  with  him;  how  he  crouched  in  his  chair,  be- 
spelled  by  it,  till  he  violently  rose  and  fled,  with  loneliness 
for  companion  in  his  flight.  He  was  lonely.  He  sighed 
that  he  was  "lonely  as  fits."  Lonely — the  word  obsessed 
him.  Doubtless  he  was  a  bit  mad,  as  are  all  the  isolated 
men  who  sit  in  distant  lands  longing  for  the  voices  of 
friendship. 

Next  morning  he  hastened  to  take  the  train  for  Oxford 
to  get  away  from  his  loneliness,  which  lolled  evilly  beside 
6  69 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

him  in  the  compartment.  He  tried  to  convey  to  a  stodgy 
North  Countryman  his  interest  in  the  way  the  seats  faced 
each  other.  The  man  said  "Oh  aye?"  insultingly  and 
returned  to  his  Manchester  newspaper. 

Feeling  that  he  was  so  offensive  that  it  was  a  matter  of 
honor  for  him  to  keep  his  eyes  away,  Mr.  Wrenn  dutifully 
stared  out  of  the  door  till  they  reached  Oxford. 

There  is  a  calm  beauty  to  New  College  gardens.  There 
is,  Mr.  Wrenn  observed,  "something  simply  slick  about 
all  these  old  quatrangleses,"  crossed  by  summering 
students  in  short  flappy  gowns.  But  he  always  returned 
to  his  exile's  room,  where  he  now  began  to  hear  the  new 
voice  of  shapeless  nameless  Fear — fear  of  all  this  alien 
world  that  didn't  care  whether  he  loved  it  or  not. 

He  sat  thinking  of  the  cattle-boat  as  a  home  which  he 
had  loved  but  which  he  would  never  see  again.  He  had 
to  use  force  on  himself  to  keep  from  hurrying  back  to 
Liverpool  while  there  still  was  time  to  return  on  the  same 
boat. 

No!  He  was  going  to  "stick  it  out  somehow,  and  get 
onto  the  hang  of  all  this  highbrow  business." 

Then  he  said:  "Oh,  darn  it  all.  I  feel  rotten.  I  wish 
I  was  dead!" 

"Those,  sir,  are  the  windows  of  the  apartment  once 
occupied  by  Walter  Pater,"  said  the  cultured  American 
after  whom  he  was  trailing.  Mr.  Wrenn  viewed  them 
attentively,  and  with  shame  remembered  that  he  didn't 
know  who  Walter  Pater  was.  But — oh  yes,  now  he 
remembered;  Walter  was  the  guy  that  'd  murdered  his 
whole  family.  So,  aloud,  "Well,  I  guess  Oxford's  sorry 
Walt  ever  come  here,  all  right." 

"My  dear  sir,  Mr.  Pater  was  the  most  immaculate 
genius  of  the  nineteenth  century,"  lectured  Dr.  Mittyford, 
the  cultured  American,  severely. 

Mr.  Wrenn  had  met  Mittyford,  Ph.D.,  near  the  barges; 
had,  upon  polite  request,  still  more  politely  lent  him  a 

70 


HE    IS   AN   ORPHAN 

match,  and  seized  the  chance  to  confide  in  somebody. 
Mittyford  had  a  bald  head,  neat  eye-glasses,  a  fair  family 
income,  a  chatty  good-fellowship  at  the  Faculty  Club, 
and  a  chilly  contemptuousness  in  his  rhetoric  class-room 
at  Leland  Stanford,  Jr.,  University.  He  wrote  poetry, 
which  he  filed  away  under  the  letter  "P"  in  his  letter- 
file. 

Dr.  Mittyford  grudgingly  took  Mr.  Wrenn  about,  to 
teach  him  what  not  to  enjoy.  He  pointed  at  Shelley's 
rooms  as  at  a  certificated  angel's  feather,  but  Mr.  Wrenn 
writhingly  admitted  that  he  had  never  heard  of  Shelley, 
whose  name  he  confused  with  Max  O'Rell's,  which  Dr. 
Mittyford  deemed  an  error.  Then,  Pater's  window. 
The  doctor  shrugged.  Oh  well,  what  could  you  expect 
of  the  proletariat!  Swinging  his  stick  aloofly,  he  stalked 
to  the  Bodleian  and  vouchsafed,  "That,  sir,  is  the  JEschylus  t 
Shelley  had  in  his  pocket  when  he  was  drowned." 

Though  he  heard  with  sincere  regret  the  news  that  his 
new  idol  was  drowned,  Mr.  Wrenn  found  that  JEschylus 
left  him  cold.  It  seemed  to  be  printed  in  a  foreign  lan 
guage.  But  perhaps  it  was  merely  a  very  old  book. 

Standing  before  a  case  in  which  was  an  exquisite 
book  in  a  queer  wrigglesome  language,  bearing  the  legend 
that  from  this  volume  Fitzgerald  had  translated  the 
Rubaiyat,  Dr.  Mittyford  waved  his  hand  and  looked  for 
thanks. 

"Pretty  book,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn. 

"And   did  you  note  who  used  it?" 

"Uh — yes."  He  hastily  glanced  at  the  placard.  "  Mr. 
Fitzgerald.  Say,  I  think  I  read  some  of  that  Rubaiyat. 
It  was  something  about  a  Persian  kitten — I  don't  remem 
ber  exactly." 

Dr.  Mittyford  walked  bitterly  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

About  eight  in  the  evening  Mr.  Wrenn's  landlady 
knocked  with, "There's  a  gentleman  below  to  see  you,  sir." 

71 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Me?"  blurted  Mr.  Wrenn. 

He  galloped  down-stairs,  panting  to  himself  that  Morton 
had  at  last  found  him.  He  peered  out  and  was  over 
whelmed  by  a  motor-car,  with  Dr.  Mittyford  waiting  in 
awesome  fur  coat,  goggles,  and  gauntlets,  centered  in  the 
car-lamp  light  that  loomed  in  the  shivery  evening  fog. 

"Gee!  just  like  a  hero  in  a  novel!"  reflected  Mr.  Wrenn. 

"Get  on  your  things,"  said  the  pedagogue.  "Fm  going 
to  give  you  the  time  of  your  life." 

Mr.  Wrenn  obediently  went  up  and  put  on  his  cap.  He 
was  excited,  yet  frightened  and  resentful  at  being  "dragged 
into  all  this  highbrow  business"  which  he  had  resolutely 
been  putting  away  the  past  two  hours. 

As  he  stole  into  the  car  Dr.  Mittyford  seemed  com 
paratively  human,  remarking:  "I  feel  bored  this  evening. 
I  thought  I  would  give  you  a  nuit  blanche.  How  would 
you  like  to  go  to  the  Red  Unicorn  at  Brempton — one  of 
the  few  untouched  old  inns?" 

"That  would  be  nice,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn,  unenthusiastic 
ally. 

His  chilliness  impressed  Dr.  Mittyford,  who  promptly 
told  one  of  the  best  of  his  well-known  whimsical  yet 
scholarly  stories. 

"Ha!   ha!"  remarked  Mr.  Wrenn. 

He  had  been  saying  to  himself:  "By  golly!  I  ain't  going 
to  even  try  to  be  a  society  guy  with  him  no  more.  Fm 
just  going  to  be  me,  and  if  he  don't  like  it  he  can  go  to  the 
dickens." 

So  he  was  gentle  and  sympathetic  and  talked  West 
Sixteenth  Street  slang,  to  the  rhetorician's  lofty  amuse 
ment. 

The  tap-room  of  the  Red  Unicorn  was  lighted  by  candles 
and  a  fireplace.  That  is  a  simple  thing  to  say,  but  it 
was  not  a  simple  thing  for  Mr.  Wrenn  to  see.  As  he 
observed  the  trembling  shadows  on  the  sanded  floor  he 
wriggled  and  excitedly  murmured,  "Gee!  .  .  .  Gee 
whittakers!" 

72 


HE    IS    AN   ORPHAN 

The  shadows  slipped  in  arabesques  over  the  dust-gray 
floor  and  scampered  as  bravely  among  the  rafters  as 
though  they  were  in  such  a  tale  as  men  told  in  believing 
days.  Rustics  in  smocks  drank  ale  from  tankards;  and 
in  a  corner  was  snoring  an  ear-ringed  peddler  with  his 
beetle-black  head  propped  on  an  oilcloth  pack. 

Stamping  in,  chilly  from  the  ride,  Mr.  Wrenn  laughed 
aloud.  With  a  comfortable  feeling  on  the  side  toward  the 
fire  he  stuck  his  slight  legs  straight  out  before  the  old-time 
settle,  looked  devil-may-care,  made  delightful  ridges  on 
the  sanded  floor  with  his  toe,  and  clapped  a  pewter  pot 
on  his  knee  with  a  small  emphatic  "Wop!"  After  about 
two  and  a  quarter  tankards  he  broke  out,  "Say,  that 
peddler  guy  there,  don't  he  look  like  he  was  a  gipsy — you 
know — sneaking  through  the  hedges  around  the  manner- 
house  to  steal  the  earl's  daughter,  huh?" 

"Yes.  .  .  .  You're  a  romanticist,  then,  I  take  it?" 

"Yes,  I  guess  I  am.  Kind  of.  Like  to  read  romances 
and  stuff."  He  stared  at  Mittyford  beseechingly.  "But, 
say — say,  I  wonder  why Somehow,  I  haven't  en 
joyed  Oxford  and  the  rest  of  the  places  like  I  ought  to. 
See,  I'd  always  thought  Fd  be  simply  nutty  about  the 
quatrangles  and  stuff,  but  I'm  afraid  they're  too  highbrow 
for  me.  I  hate  to  own  up,  but  sometimes  I  wonder  if  I 
can  get  away  with  this  traveling  stunt." 

Mittyford,  the  magnificent,  had  mixed  ale  and  whisky 
punch.  He  was  mellowly  instructive: 

"Do  you  know,  I've  been  wondering  just  what  you 
would  get  out  of  all  this.  You  really  have  a  very  fine 
imagination  of  a  sort,  you  know,  but  of  course  you're 
lacking  in  certain  factual  bases.  As  I  see  it,  your  metier 
would  be  to  travel  with  a  pleasant  wife,  the  two  of  you 
hand  in  hand,  so  to  speak,  looking  at  the  more  obvious 
public  buildings  and  plesaunces — avenues  and  plesuances. 
There  must  be  a  certain  portion  of  the  tripper  class  which 
really  has  the  ability  "for  to  admire  and  for  to  see.'" 

Dr.  Mittyford  finished  his  second  toddy  and  with  a 

73 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

wave  of  his  hand  presented  to  Mr.  Wrenn  the  world  and 
all  the  plesaunces  thereof,  for  to  see,  though  not,  of  course, 
to  adm^e  Mittyfordianly. 

"But — what  are  you  to  do  now  about  Oxford?  Well, 
I'm  afraid  you're  taken  into  captivity  a  bit  late  to  be 
trained  for  that  sort  of  thing.  Do  about  Oxford?  Why, 
go  back,  master  the  world  you  understand.  By  the  way, 
have  you  seen  my  book  on  Saxon  Derivatives?  Not  that 
I'm  prejudiced  in  its  favor,  but  it  might  give  you  a 
glimmering  of  what  this  difficile  thing  'culture'  real 
ly  is." 

The  rustics  were  droning  a  church  anthem.  The  glow 
of  the  ale  was  in  Mr.  Wrenn.  He  leaned  back,  entirely 
happy,  and  it  seemed  confusedly  to  him  that  what  little  he 
had  heard  of  his  learned  and  affectionate  friend's  advice 
gratefully  confirmed  his  own  theory  that  what  one  wanted 
was  friends — a  "nice  wife" — folks.  "Yes,  sir,  by  golly! 
It  was  awfully  nice  of  the  Doc."  He  pictured  a  tender 
girl  in  golden  brown  back  in  the  New  York  he  so  much 
desired  to  see  who  would  await  him  evenings  with  a  smile 
that  was  kept  for  him.  Homey — that  was  what  he  was 
going  to  be!  He  happily  and  thoughtfully  ran  his  finger 
about  the  rim  of  his  glass  ten  times. 

"Time  to  go,  I'm  afraid,"  Dr.  Mittyford  was  saying. 

Through  the  exquisite  haze  that  now  filled  the  room 
Mr.  Wrenn  saw  him  dimly,  as  a  triangle  of  shirt-front  and 
two  gleaming  ellipses  for  eyes.  .  .  .  His  dear  friend,  the  Doc! 
...  As  he  walked  through  the  room  chairs  got  humorously 
in  his  way,  but  he  good-naturedly  picked  a  path  among 
them,  and  fell  asleep  in  the  motor-car.  All  the  ride  back 
he  made  soft  mouse-like  sounds  of  snoring. 

When  he  awoke  in  the  morning  with  a  headache  and 
surveyed  his  unchangeably  dingy  room  he  realized  slowly, 
after  smothering  his  head  in  the  pillow  to  shut  off  the 
light  from  his  scorching  eyeballs,  that  Dr.  Mittyford  had 
called  him  a  fool  for  trying  to  wander.  He  protested,  but 
not  for  long,  for  he  hated  to  venture  out  there  among  the 

74 


HE    IS   AN   ORPHAN 

dreadfully  learned  colleges   and   try  to  understand  stuff 
written  in  letters  that  look  like  crow-tracks. 

He  packed  his  suit-case  slowly,  feeling  that  he  was  very 
wicked  in  leaving  Oxford's  opportunities. 

Mr.  Wrenn  rode  down  on  a  Tottenham  Court  Road 
bus,  viewing  the  quaintness  of  London.  Life  was  a 
rosy  ringing  valiant  pursuit,  for  he  was  about  to  ship 
on  a  Mediterranean  steamer  laden  chiefly  with  adven 
turous  friends.  The  bus  passed  a  victoria  containing  a 
man  with  a  real  monocle.  A  newsboy  smiled  up  at  him. 
The  Strand  roared  with  lively  traffic. 

But  the  gray  stonework  and  curtained  windows  of  the 
Anglo-Southern  Steamship  Company's  office  did  not  in 
vite  any  Mr.  Wrenns  to  come  in  and  ship,  nor  did  the 
hall  porter,  a  beefy  person  with  a  huge  collar  and  sparse 
painfully  sleek  hair,  whose  eyes  were  like  cold  boiled 
mackerel  as  Mr.  Wrenn  yearned: 

"Please — uh — please  will  you  be  so  kind  and  tell  me 
where  I  can  ship  as  a  steward  for  the  Med — 

"None  needed." 

"Or  Spain  ?  I  just  want  to  get  any  kind  of  a  job  at  first. 
Peeling  potatoes  or—  -  It  don't  make  any  difference — 

"None  needed,  I  said,  my  man."  The  porter  examined 
the  hall  clock  extensively. 

Bill  Wrenn  suddenly  popped  into  being  and  demanded: 
"Look  here,  you;  I  want  to  see  somebody  in  authority. 
I  want  to  know  what  I  can  ship  as." 

The  porter  turned  round  and  started.  All  his  faith  in 
mankind  was  destroyed  by  the  shock  of  finding  the  fellow 
still  there.  "Nothing,  I  told  you.  No  one  needed." 

"Look  here;   can  I  see  somebody  in  authority  or  not?" 

The  porter  was  privately  esteemed  a  wit  at  his  mother- 
in-law's.  Waddling  away,  he  answered,  "Or  not." 

Mr.  Wrenn  drooped  out  of  the  corridor.  He  had  planned 
to  see  the  Tate  Gallery,  but  now  he  hadn't  the  courage 
to  face  the  difficulties  of  enjoying  pictures.  He  zig- 

75 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

zagged  home,  mourning:  "What's  the  use.  And  I'll  be 
hung  if  I'll  try  any  other  offices,  either.  The  icy  mitt, 
that's  what  they  hand  you  here.  Some  day  I'll  go  down 
to  the  docks  and  try  to  ship  there.  Prob'ly.  Gee! 
I  feel  rotten!" 

Out  of  all  this  fog  of  unfriendliness  appeared  the 
waitress  at  the  St.  Brasten  Cocoa  House;  first,  as  a  human 
being  to  whom  he  could  talk,  second,  as  a  woman.  She 
was  ignorant  and  vulgar;  she  misused  English  cruelly; 
she  wore  greasy  cotton  garments,  planted  her  large  feet 
on  the  floor  with  firm  clumsiness,  and  always  laughed  at 
the  wrong  cue  in  his  diffident  jests.  But  she  did  laugh; 
she  did  listen  while  he  stammered  his  ideas  of  meat-pies 
and  St.  Paul's  and  aeroplanes  and  Shelley  and  fog  and 
tan  shoes.  In  fact,  she  supposed  him  to  be  a  gentleman 
and  scholar,  not  an  American. 

He  went  to  the  cocoa-house  daily. 

She  let  him  know  that  he  was  a  man  and  she  a  woman, 
young  and  kindly,  clear-skinned  and  joyous-eyed.  She 
touched  him  with  warm  elbow  and  plump  hip,  leaning 
against  his  chair  as  he  gave  his  order.  To  that  he  looked 
forward  from  meal  to  meal,  though  he  never  ceased  har 
rowing  over  what  he  considered  a  shameful  intrigue. 

That  opinion  of  his  actions  did  not  keep  him  from 
tingling  one  lunch-time  when  he  suddenly  understood  that 
she  was  expecting  to  be  tempted.  He  tempted  her  with 
out  the  slightest  delay,  muttering,  "Let's  take  a  walk 
this  evening?" 

She  accepted.  He  was  shivery  and  short  of  breath 
while  he  was  trying  to  smile  at  her  during  the  rest  of  the 
meal,  and  so  he  remained  all  afternoon  at  the  Tower  of 
London,  though  he  very  well  knew  that  all  this  history — 
"  kings  and  gwillotines  and  stuff" — demanded  real  Wrenn 
thrills. 

They  were  to  meet  on  a  street-corner  at  eight.  At 
seven-thirty  he  was  waiting  for  her.  At  eight-thirty  he 

76 


HE    IS    AN   ORPHAN 

indignantly  walked  away,  but  he  hastily  returned,  and 
stood  there  another  half-hour.     She  did  not  come. 

When  he  finally  fled  home  he  was  glad  to  have  escaped 
the  great  mystery  of  life,  then  distressingly  angry  at 
the  waitress,  and  desolate  in  the  desert  stillness  of  his 
room. 

He  sat  in  his  cold  hygienic  uncomfortable  room  on 
Tavistock  Place  trying  to  keep  his  attention  on  the 
"tick,  tick,  tick,  tick"  of  his  two-dollar  watch,  but 
really  cowering  before  the  vast  shadowy  presences  that 
slunk  in  from  the  hostile  city. 

He  didn't  in  the  least  know  what  he  was  afraid  of. 
The  actual  Englishman  whom  he  passed  on  the  streets 
did  not  seem  to  threaten  his  life,  yet  his  friendly  watch 
and  familiar  suit-case  seemed  the  only  things  he  could  trust 
in  all  the  menacing  world  as  he  sat  there,  so  vividly  con 
scious  of  his  fear  and  loneliness  that  he  dared  not  move 
his  cramped  legs. 

The  tension  could  not  last.  For  a  time  he  was  able  to 
laugh  at  himself,  and  he  made  pleasant  pictures — Charley 
Carpenter  telling  him  a  story  at  DriibePs;  Morton  com- 
panionably  smoking  on  the  top  deck;  Lee  Theresa  flatter 
ing  him  during  an  evening  walk.  Most  of  all  he  pictured 
the  brown-eyed  sweetheart  he  was  going  to  meet  some 
where,  sometime.  He  thought  with  sophomoric  shame 
of  his  futile  affair  with  the  waitress,  then  forgot  her  as  he 
seemed  almost  to  touch  the  comforting  hand  of  the 
brown-eyed  girl. 

"Friends,  that's  what  I  want.  You  bet!"  That  was 
the  work  he  was  going  to  do — make  acquaintances.  A 
girl  who  would  understand  him,  with  whom  he  could  trot 
about,  seeing  department-store  windows  and  moving- 
picture  shows. 

It  was  then,  probably,  hunched  up  in  the  dowdy  chair 
of  faded  upholstery,  that  he  created  the  two  phrases  which 
became  his  formulae  for  happiness. 

77 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

body  to  go  home  to  evenings";  still  more,  "some  one  to 
work  with  and  work  for." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had  mapped  out  his  whole  life. 
He  sat  back,  satisfied,  and  caught  the  sound  of  emptiness 
in  his  room,  emphasized  by  the  stilly  tick  of  his  watch. 

"Oh— Morton-     "  he  cried. 

He  leaped  up  and  raised  the  window.  It  was  raining, 
but  through  the  slow  splash  came  the  night  rattle  of  hostile 
London.  Staring  down,  he  studied  the  desolate  circle  of 
light  a  street-lamp  cast  on  the  wet  pavement.  A  cat  gray 
as  dish-water,  its  fur  worn  off  in  spots,  lean  and  horrible, 
sneaked  through  the  circle  of  light  like  the  spirit  of 
unhappiness,  like  London's  sneer  at  solitary  Americans  in 
Russell  Square  rooms. 

Mr.  Wrenn  gulped.  Through  the  light  skipped  a  man 
and  a  girl,  so  little  aware  of  him  that  they  stopped, 
laughingly,  wrestling  for  an  umbrella,  then  disappeared, 
and  the  street  was  like  a  forgotten  tomb.  A  hansom 
swung  by,  the  hoofbeats  sharp  and  cheerless.  The  rain 
dripped.  Nothing  else.  Mr.  Wrenn  slammed  down  the 
window. 

He  smoothed  the  sides  of  his  suit-case  and  reckoned 
the  number  of  miles  it  had  traveled  with  him.  He  spun 
his  watch  about  on  the  table,  and  listened  to  its  rapid 
mocking  speech,  "Friends,  friends;  friends,  friends." 

Sobbing,  he  began  to  undress,  laying  down  each  garment 
as  though  he  were  going  to  the  scaffold.  When  the  room 
was  dark  the  great  shadowy  forms  of  fear  thronged  un 
checked  about  his  narrow  dingy  bed. 

Once  during  the  night  he  woke.  Some  sound  was 
threatening  him.  It  was  London,  coming  to  get  him  and 
torture  him.  The  light  in  his  room  was  dusty,  mottled, 
gray,  lifeless.  He  saw  his  door,  half  ajar,  and  for  some 
moments  lay  motionless,  watching  stark  and  bodiless 
heads  thrust  themselves  through  the  opening  and  with 
draw  with  sinister  alertness  till  he  sprang  up  and  opened 
the  door  wide. 

78 


HE    IS   AN   ORPHAN 

But  he  did  not  even  stop  to  glance  down  the  hall  for  the 
crowd  of  phantoms  that  had  gathered  there.  Some  hidden 
manful  scorn  of  weakness  made  him  sneer  aloud,  "Don't 
be  a  baby  even  if  you  are  lonely." 

His  voice  was  deeper  than  usual,  and  he  went  to  bed  to 
sleep,  throwing  himself  down  with  a  coarse  wholesome 
scorn  of  his  nervousness. 

He  awoke  after  dawn,  and  for  a  moment  curled  in  happy 
wriggles  of  satisfaction  over  a  good  sleep.  Then  he  re 
membered  that  he  was  in  the  cold  and  friendless  prison 
of  England,  and  lay  there  panting  with  desire  to  get  away, 
to  get  back  to  America,  where  he  would  be  safe. 

He  wanted  to  leap  out  of  bed,  dash  for  the  Liverpool 
train,  and  take  passage  for  America  on  the  first  boat. 
But  perhaps  the  officials  in  charge  of  the  emigrants  and 
the  steerage  (and  of  course  a  fellow  would  go  steerage 
to  save  money)  would  want  to  know  his  religion  and  the 
color  of  his  hair — as  bad  as  trying  to  ship.  They  might 
holdjiim  up  for  a  couple  of  days.  There  were  quarantines 
and  customs  and  things,  of  which  he  had  heard.  Perhaps 
for  two  or  even  three  days  more  he  would  have  to  stay  in 
this  nauseating  prison-land. 

This  was  the  morning  of  August  3,  1910,  two  weeks 
after  his  arrival  in  London,  and  twenty-two  days  after 
victoriously  reaching  England,  the  land  of  romance. 


VII 

HE   MEETS   A  TEMPERAMENT 

MR.  WRENN  was  sulkily  breakfasting  at  Mrs. 
Cattermole's  Tea  House,  which  Mrs.  Cattermole 
kept  in  a  genteel  fashion  in  a  basement  three  doors  from 
his  rooming-house  on  Tavistock  Place.  After  his  night 
of  fear  and  tragic  portents  he  resented  the  general  flow 
ered-paper-napkin  aspect  of  Mrs.  Cattermole's  establish 
ment.  "Hungh!"  he  grunted,  as  he  jabbed  at  the  fringed 
doily  under  the  silly  pink-and-white  tea-cup  on  the 
green-and-white  lacquered  tray  brought  him  by  a  fat 
waitress  in  a  frilly  apron  which  must  have  been  made  for 
a  Christmas  pantomime  fairy  who  was  not  fat.  "Hu- 
rump!"  he  snorted  at  the  pictures  of  lambs  and  radishes 
and  cathedrals  and  little  duckies  on  Mrs.  Cattermole's 
pink-and-white  wall. 

He  wished  it  were  possible — which,  of  course,  it  was  not 
—to  go  back  to  the  St.  Brasten  Cocoa  House,  where  he 
could  talk  to  the  honest  flat-footed  galumping  waitress, 
and  cross  his  feet  under  his  chair.  For  here  he  was 
daintily,  yes,  daintily,  studied  by  the  tea-room  habitues — 
two  bouncing  and  talkative  daughters  of  an  American 
tourist,  a  slender  pale-haired  English  girl  student  of 
Assyriology  with  large  top-barred  eye-glasses  over  her 
protesting  eyes,  and  a  sprinkling  of  people  living  along 
Tavistock  Place,  who  looked  as  though  they  wanted  to 
know  if  your  opinions  on  the  National  Gallery  and 
abstinence  were  sound. 

His  disapproval  of  the  lambiness  of  Mrs.  Cattermole's 

80 


HE    MEETS   A   TEMPERAMENT 

was  turned  to  a  feeling  of  comradeship  with  the  other 
patrons  as  he  turned,  with  the  rest,  to  stare  hostilely  at  a 
girl  just  entering.  The  talk  in  the  room  halted,  startled. 

Mr.  Wrenn  gasped.  With  his  head  solemnly  revolving, 
his  eyes  followed  the  young  woman  about  his  table  to  a 
table  opposite.  "A  freak!  Gee,  what  red  hair!"  was  his 
private  comment. 

A  slender  girl  of  twenty-eight  or  twenty-nine,  clad  in  a 
one-piece  gown  of  sage-green,  its  lines  unbroken  by  either 
belt  or  collar-brooch,  fitting  her  as  though  it  had  been 
pasted  on,  and  showing  the  long  beautiful  sweep  of  her 
fragile  thighs  and  long-curving  breast.  Her  collar,  of 
the  material  of  the  dress,  was  so  high  that  it  touched  her 
delicate  jaw,  and  it  was  set  off  only  by  a  fine  silver  chain, 
with  a  La  Valliere  of  silver  and  carved  Burmese  jade. 
Her  red  hair,  red  as  a  poinsettia,  parted  and  drawn 
severely  back,  made  a  sweep  about  the  fair  dead-white 
skin  of  her  bored  sensitive  face.  Bored  blue-gray  eyes, 
with  pathetic  crescents  of  faintly  violet-hued  wrinkles 
beneath  them,  and  a  scarce  noticeable  web  of  tinier 
wrinkles  at  the  side.  Thin  long  cheeks,  a  delicate  nose, 
and  a  straight  strong  mouth  of  thin  but  startlingly  red  lips. 

Such  was  the  new  patron  of  Mrs.  Cattermole. 

She  stared  about  the  tea-room  like  an  officer  inspecting 
raw  recruits,  sniffed  at  the  stare  of  the  thin  girl  student, 
ordered  breakfast  in  a  low  voice,  then  languidly  considered 
her  toast  and  marmalade.  Once  she  glanced  about  the 
room.  Her  heavy  brows  were  drawn  close  for  a  second, 
making  a  deep-cleft  wrinkle  of  ennui  over  her  nose,  and 
two  little  indentations,  like  the  impressions  of  a  box 
corner,  in  her  forehead  over  her  brows. 

Mr.  Wrenn's  gaze  ran  down  the  line  of  her  bosom  again, 
and  he  wondered  at  her  hands,  which  touched  the  heavy 
bread-and-butter  knife  as  though  it  were  a  fine-point  pen. 
Long  hands,  colored  like  ivory;  the  joint  wrinkles  etched 
into  her  skin;  orange  cigarette  stains  on  the  second  finger; 

the  nails 

81 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

He  stared  at  them.  To  himself  he  commented,  "Gee! 
I  never  did  see  such  freak  finger-nails  in  my  life."  Instead 
of  such  smoothly  rounded  nails  as  Theresa  Zapp  displayed, 
the  new  young  lady  had  nails  narrow  and  sharp-pointed, 
the  ends  like  little  triangles  of  stiff  white  writing-paper. 

As  she  breakfasted  she  scanned  Mr.  Wrenn  for  a 
second.  He  was  too  obviously  caught  staring  to  be  able 
to  drop  his  eyes.  She  studied  him  all  out,  with  almost  as 
much  interest  as  a  policeman  gives  to  a  passing  trolley-car, 
yawned  delicately,  and  forgot  him. 

Though  you  should  penetrate  Greenland  or  talk 
anarchism  to  the  daughter  of  a  millionaire  grocer,  never 
shall  you  feel  a  more  devouring  chill  than  enveloped  Mr. 
Wrenn  as  the  new  young  lady  glanced  away  from  him, 
paid  her  check,  rose  slithily  from  her  table,  and  departed. 
She  rounded  his  table;  not  stalking  out  of  its  way,  as 
Theresa  would  have  done,  but  bending  from  the  hips. 
Thus  was  it  revealed  to  Mr.  Wrenn  that 

He  was  almost  too  horrified  to  put  it  into  words.  .  .  . 
He  had  noticed  that  there  was  something  kind  of  funny 
in  regard  to  her  waist;  he  had  had  an  impression  of  re 
markably  smooth  waist  curves  and  an  unjagged  sweep  of 
back.  Now  he  saw  that —  It  was  unheard  of;  not  at 
all  like  Lee  Theresa  Zapp  or  ladies  in  the  Subway.  For — 
the  freak  girl  wasn't  wearing  corsets! 

When  she  had  passed  him  he  again  studied  her  back, 
swiftly  and  covertly.  No,  sir.  No  question  about  it. 
It  couldn't  be  denied  by  any  one  now  that  the  girl  was  a 
freak,  for,  charitable  though  Our  Mr.  Wrenn  was,  he  had 
to  admit  that  there  was  no  sign  of  the  midback  ridge  and 
little  rounded  knobbinesses  of  corseted  respectability. 
And  he  had  a  closer  view  of  the  texture  of  her  sage-green 
crash  gown. 

"Golly!"  he  said  to  himself;  "of  all  the  doggone  cloth  for 
a  dress!  Reg'lar  gunny  -  sacking.  She's  skinny,  too. 
Bright-red  hair.  She  sure  is  the  prize  freak.  Kind  of 
good-looking,  but — get  a  brick!" 

82 


HE    MEETS    A   TEMPERAMENT 

He  hated  to  rule  so  clever-seeming  a  woman  quite  out  of 
court.  But  he  remembered  her  scissors  glance  at  him, 
and  his  soft  little  heart  became  very  hard. 

How  brittle  are  our  steel  resolves !  When  Mr.  Wrenn 
walked  out  of  Mrs.  Cattermole's  excellent  establishment 
and  heavily  inspected  the  quiet  Bloomsbury  Street,  with 
a  cat's-meat-man  stolidly  clopping  along  the  pavement,  as 
loneliness  rushed  on  him  and  he  wondered  what  in  the 
world  he  could  do,  he  mused,  "Gee!  I  bet  that  red-headed 
lady  would  be  interestin'  to  know." 

A  day  of  furtive  darts  out  from  his  room  to  do  London, 
which  glumly  declined  to  be  done.  He  went  back  to  the 
Zoological  Gardens  and  made  friends  with  a  tiger  which, 
though  it  presumably  came  from  an  English  colony,  was 
the  friendliest  thing  he  had  seen  for  a  week.  It  did  yawn, 
but  it  let  him  talk  to  it  for  a  long  while.  He  stood  before 
the  bars,  peering  in,  and  whenever  no  one  else  was  about 
he  murmured:  "Poor  fella,  they  won't  let  you  go,  heh? 
You  got  a  worse  boss  'n  Goglefogle,  heh  ?  Poor  old 
fella." 

He  didn't  at  all  mind  the  disorder  and  rancid  smell  of 
the  cage;  he  had  no  fear  of  the  tiger's  sleek  murderous 
power.  But  he  was  somewhat  afraid  of  the  sound  of  his 
own  tremorous  voice.  He  had  spoken  aloud  so  little 
lately. 

A  man  came,  an  Englishman  in  a  high  offensively  well- 
fitting  waistcoat,  and  stood  before  the  cage.  Mr.  Wrenn 
slunk  away,  robbed  of  his  new  friend,  the  tiger,  the  for- 
lornest  person  in  all  London,  kicking  at  pebbles  in  the 
path. 

As  half-dusk  made  the  quiet  street  even  more  detached, 
he  sat  on  the  steps  of  his  rooming-house  on  Tavistock 
Place,  keeping  himself  from  the  one  definite  thing  he 
wanted  to  do — the  thing  he  keenly  imagined  a  happy 
Mr.  Wrenn  doing — dashing  over  to  the  Euston  Station  to 
find  out  how  soon  and  where  he  could  get  a  train  for 
Liverpool  and  a  boat  for  America. 

83 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

A  girl  was  approaching  the  house.  He  viewed  her 
carelessly,  then  intently.  It  was  the  freak  lady  of  Mrs. 
Cattermole's  Tea  House — the  corsetless  young  woman  of 
the  tight-fitting  crash  gown  and  flame-colored  hair.  She 
was  coming  up  the  steps  of  his  house. 

He  made  room  for  her  with  feverish  courtesy.     She 

lived  in  the  same  house He  instantly,  without  a  bit 

of  encouragement  from  the  uninterested  way  in  which  she 
snipped  the  door  to,  made  up  a  whole  novel  about  her. 
Gee!  She  was  a  French  countess,  who  lived  in  a  reg'lar 
chateau,  and  she  was  staying  in  Bloomsbury  incognito, 
seeing  the  sights.  She  was  a  noble.  She  was 

Above  him  a  window  opened.  He  glanced  up.  The 
countess  incog,  was  leaning  out,  scanning  the  street  un- 
caringly.  Why — her  windows  were  next  to  his!  He  was 
living  next  room  to  an  unusual  person — as  unusual  as 
Dr.  Mittyford. 

He  hurried  up-stairs  with  a  fervid  but  vague  plan  to 
meet  her.  Maybe  she  really  was  a  French  countess  or 
somepun'.  All  evening,  sitting  by  the  window,  he  was 
comforted  as  he  heard  her  move  about  her  room.  He  had 
a  friend.  He  had  started  that  great  work  of  making 
friends — well,  not  started,  but  started  starting — then  he 
got  confused,  but  the  idea  was  a  flame  to  warm  the  fog- 
chilled  spaces  of  the  London  street. 

At  his  Cattermole  breakfast  he  waited  long.  She  did 
not  come.  Another  day — but  why  paint  another  day 
that  was  but  a  smear  of  flat  dull  slate?  Yet  another 
breakfast,  and  the  lady  of  mystery  came.  Before  he 
knew  he  was  doing  it  he  had  bowed  to  her,  a  slight  un 
easy  bend  of  his  neck.  She  peered  at  him,  unseeing,  and 
sat  down  with  her  back  to  him. 

He  got  much  good  healthy  human  vindictive  satisfac 
tion  in  evicting  her  violently  from  the  French  chateau 
he  had  given  her,  and  remembering  that,  of  course,  she 
was  just  a  "fool  freak  Englishwoman — prob'ly  a  bloomin* 
stoodent"  he  scorned,  and  so  settled  her!  Also  he  told 


HE   MEETS   A   TEMPERAMENT 

her,  by  telepathy,  that  her  new  gown  was  freakier  than 
ever — a  pale-green  thing,  with  large  white  buttons. 

As  he  was  coming  in  that  evening  he  passed  her  in  the 
hall.  She  was  clad  in  what  he  called  a  bathrobe,  and  what 
she  called  an  Arabian  burnoose,  of  black  embroidered  with 
dull -gold  crescents  and  stars,  showing  a  V  of  exquisite 
flesh  at  her  throat.  A  shred  of  tenuous  lace  straggled 
loose  at  the  opening  of  the  burnoose.  Her  radiant  hair, 
tangled  over  her  forehead,  shone  with  a  thousand  various 
gleams  from  the  gas-light  over  her  head  as  she  moved 
back  against  the  wall  and  stood  waiting  for  him  to  pass. 
She  smiled  very  doubtfully,  distantly — the  smile,  he  felt, 
of  a  great  lady  from  Mayfair.  He  bobbed  his  head, 
lowered  his  eyes  abashedly,  and  noticed  that  along  the 
shelf  of  her  forearm,  held  against  her  waist,  she  bore  many 
silver  toilet  articles,  and  such  a  huge  heavy  fringed 
Turkish  bath-towel  as  he  had  never  seen  before. 

He  lay  awake  to  picture  her  brilliant  throat  and  shining 
hair.  He  rebuked  himself  for  the  lack  of  dignity  in 
"thinking  of  that  freak,  when  she  wouldn't  even  return  a 
fellow's  bow."  But  her  shimmering  hair  was  the  star  of 
his  dreams. 

Napping  in  his  room  in  the  afternoon,  Mr.  Wrenn  heard 
slight  active  sounds  from  her,  next  room.  He  hurried 
down  to  the  stoop. 

She  stood  behind  him  on  the  door-step,  glaring  up  and 
down  the  street,  as  bored  and  as  ready  to  spring  as  the 
Zoo  tiger.  Mr.  Wrenn  heard  himself  saying  to  the  girl, 
"Please,  miss,  do  you  mind  telling  me — I'm  an  American; 
Fm  a  stranger  in  London — I  want  to  go  to  a  good  play  or 
something  and  what  would  I — what  would  be  good " 

"I  don't  know,  reahlly,"  she  said,  with  much  hauteur. 
"Everything's  rather  rotten  this  season,  I  fancy."  Her 
voice  ran  fluting  up  and  down  the  scale.  Her  a's  were 
very  broad. 

"Oh — oh — y-you  are  English,  then?" 

"Yes!" 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Why— uh " 

"Yts/" 

"Oh,  I  just  had  a  fool  idea  maybe  you  might  be  French." 

"Perhaps  I  am,  y'  know.  I'm  not  reahlly  English,"  she 
said,  blandly. 

"Why— uh " 

"What  made  you  think  I  was  French?  Tell  me;  I'm 
interested." 

"Oh,  I  guess  I  was  just — well,  it  was  almost  make- 
b'lieve — how  you  had  a  castle  in  France — just  a  kind  of 
a  fool  game." 

"Oh,  dont  be  ashamed  of  imagination,"  she  demanded, 
stamping  her  foot,  while  her  voice  fluttered,  low  and 
beautifully  controlled,  through  half  a  dozen  notes.  "Tell 
me  the  rest  of  your  story  about  me." 

She  was  sitting  on  the  rail  above  him  now.  As  he 
spoke  she  cupped  her  chin  with  the  palm  of  her  delicate 
hand  and  observed  him  curiously. 

"Oh,  nothing  much  more.     You  were  a  countess " 

"Please!  Not  just  'were/  Please,  sir,  mayn't  I  be  a 
countess  now?" 

"Oh  yes,  of  course  you  are!"  he  cried,  delight  submerg 
ing  timidity.  "And  your  father  was  sick  with  somepun* 
mysterious,  and  all  the  docs  shook  their  heads  and  said 
'Gee!  we  dunno  what  it  is/  and  so  you  sneaked  down  to 
the  treasure-chamber — you  see,  your  dad — your  father,  I 
should  say — he  was  a  cranky  old  Frenchman — just  in  the 
story,  you  know.  He  didn't  think  you  could  do  anything 
yourself  about  him  being  mysteriously  sick.  So  one  night 
you " 

"Oh,  was  it  dark?  Very  very  dark?  And  silent?  And 
my  footsteps  rang  on  the  hollow  flagstones  ?  And  I  swiped 
the  gold  and  went  forth  into  the  night?" 

"Yes,  yes!    That's  it." 

"But  why  did  I  swipe  it?" 

"I'm  just  coming  to  that,"  he  said,  sternly. 

"Oh,  please,  sir,  I'm  awful  sorry  I  interrupted." 

86 


HE   MEETS    A   TEMPERAMENT 

"It  was  like  this:  You  wanted  to  come  over  here  and 
study  medicine  so's  you  could  cure  your  father." 

"But  please,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  with  immense  gravity, 
"mayn't  I  let  him  die,  and  not  find  out  what's  ailing  him, 
so  I  can  marry  the  maire  ?" 

"Nope,"  firmly,  "you  got  to Say,  gee!  I  didn't 

expect  to  tell  you  all  this  make-b'lieve. . . .  I'm  afraid  you'll 
think  it's  awful  fresh  of  me." 

"Oh,  I  loved  it — really  I  did — because  you  liked  to 
make  it  up  about  poor  Istra.  (My  name  is  Istra  Nash.) 
I'm  sorry  to  say  I'm  not  reahlly" — her  two  "reallys"  were 
quite  different — "a  countess,  you  know.  Tell  me — you 
live  in  this  same  house,  don't  you?  Please  tell  me  that 
you're  not  an  Interesting  Person.  Please!" 

"I — gee!  I  guess  I  don't  quite  get  you." 

"Why,  stupid,  an  Interesting  Person  is  a  writer  or  an 
artist  or  an  editor  or  a  girl  who's  been  in  Holloway  Jail 
or  Canongate  for  suffraging,  or  any  one  else  who  depends 
on  an  accident  to  be  tolerable." 

"No,  I'm  afraid  not;    I'm  just  a  kind  of  clerk." 

"Good!  Good!  My  dear  sir — whom  I've  never  seen 
before — have  I?  By  the  way,  please  don't  think  I 
usually  pick  up  stray  gentlemen  and  talk  to  them  about 
my  pure  white  soul.  But  you,  you  know,  made  stories 
about  me.  ...  I  was  saying:  If  you  could  only  know  how  I 
loathe  and  hate  and  despise  Interesting  People  just  now! 
I've  seen  so  much  of  them.  They  talk  and  talk  and  talk — 
they're  just  like  Kipling's  bandar-log — what  is  it? 

"See  us  rise  in  a  flung  festoon 
Half-y/ay  up  to  the  jealous  moon. 
Don't  you  wish  you — 

could  know  all  about  art  and  economics  as  we  do  ?'  That's 
what  they  say.  Umph!" 

Then  she  wriggled  her  fingers  in  the  air  like  white 
butterflies,  shrugged  her  shoulders  elaborately,  rose  from 

87 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

the  rail,  and  sat  down  beside  him  on  the  steps,  quite 
matter-of-factly. 

He  could  feel  his  temple-pulses  beat  with  excitement. 

She  turned  her  pale  sensitive  vivid  face  slowly  toward 
him. 

"When  did  you  see  me — to  make  up  the  story?" 

"Breakfasts.     At  Mrs.  Cattermole's." 

"Oh  yes.  .  .  .  How  is  it  you  aren't  out  sight-seeing?  Or 
is  it  blessedly  possible  that  you  aren't  a  tripper  —  a 
tourist?" 

"Why,  I  dunno."  He  hunted  uneasily  for  the  right 
answer.  "Not  exactly.  I  tried  a  stunt — coming  over  on 
a  cattle-boat." 

"That's  good.     Much  better." 

She  sat  silent  while,  with  enormous  and  self-betraying 
pains  to  avoid  detection,  he  studied  her  firm  thin  bril 
liantly  red  lips.  At  last  he  tried: 

"Please  tell  me  something  about  London.  Some  of 

you  English Oh,  I  dunno.  I  can't  get  acquainted 

easily." 

"My  dear  child,  I'm  not  English!  I'm  quite  as  Amer 
ican  as  yourself.  I  was  born  in  California.  I  never 
saw  England  till  two  years  ago,  on  my  way  to  Paris. 
I'm  an  art  student. . . .  That's  why  my  accent  is  so  perishin* 
English — I  can't  afford  to  be  just  ordinary  British, 
y'  know." 

Her  laugh  had  an  October  tang  of  bitterness  in  it. 

"Well,  I'll — say,  what  do  you  know  about  that!"  he 
said,  weakly. 

"Tell  me  about  yourself — since  apparently  we're  now 
acquainted.  .  .  .  Unless  you  want  to  go  to  that  music-hall?" 

"Oh  no,  no,  no!  Gee,  I  was  just  crazy  to  have  some 
body  to  talk  to — somebody  nice — I  was  just  about  nutty, 
I  was  so  lonely,"  all  in  a  burst.  He  finished,  hesitatingly, 
"I  guess  the  English  are  kinda  hard  to  get  acquainted 
with." 

"Lonely,  eh?"  she  mused,  abrupt  and  bluffly  kind  as 


HE    MEETS   A   TEMPERAMENT 

a  man,  for  all  her  modulating  woman's  voice.  "You 
don't  know  any  of  the  people  here  in  the  house?" 

"No'm.  Say,  I  guess  we  got  rooms  next  to  each 
other." 

"How  romantic!"  she  mocked. 

"Wrenn's  my  name;  William  Wrenn.  I  work  for — 
I  used  to  work  for  the  Souvenir  and  Art  Novelty  Com 
pany.  In  New  York." 

"Oh.  I  see.  Novelties?  Nice  little  ash-trays  with 
'Love  from  the  Erie  Station'  ?  And  woggly  pin-cushions ?" 

"Yes!     And  fat  pug-dogs  with  black  eyes." 

"Oh  no-o-o!  Please  not  black!  Pale  sympathetic  blue 
eyes — nice  honest  blue  eyes!" 

"Nope.  Black.  Awful  black.  .  .  .  Say,  gee,  I  ain't 
talking  too  nutty,  am  I  ?" 

"'  Nutty'?  You  mean  'idiotically'?  The  slang's 

changed  since Oh  yes,  of  course;  you've  succeeded 

in  talking  quite  nice  and  *  idiotic." 

"Oh,  say,  gee,  I  didn't  mean  to When  you  been 

so  nice  and  all  to  me " 

"Don't  apologize!"  Istra  Nash  demanded,  savagely. 
"Haven't  they  taught  you  that?" 

"Yes'm,"  he  mumbled,  apologetically. 

She  sat  silent  again,  apparently  not  at  all  satisfied  with 
the  architecture  of  the  opposite  side  of  Tavistock  Place. 
Diffidently  he  edged  into  speech: 

"Honest,  I  did  think  you  was  English.  You  came  from 
California?  Oh,  say,  I  wonder  if  you've  ever  heard  of 
Dr.  Mittyford.  He's  some  kind  of  school-teacher.  I 
think  he  teaches  in  I/eland  Stamford  College." 

"Leland  Stanford?  You  know  him?"  She  dropped 
into  interested  familiarity. 

"I  met  him  at  Oxford." 

"Really?  .  .  .  My  brother  was  at  Stanford.  I  think 

I've  heard  him  speak  of Oh  yes.  He  said  that 

Mittyford  was  a  cultural  climber,  if  you  know  what  I 
mean;  rather — oh,  how  shall  I  express  it? — oh,  shall  we 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

put  it,  finicky  about  things  people  have  just  told  him  to  be 
finicky  about." 

"Yes!"  glowed  Mr.  Wrenn. 

To  the  luxury  of  feeling  that  he  knew  the  unusual 
Miss  Istra  Nash  he  sacrificed  Dr.  Mittyford,  scholarship 
and  eye-glasses  and  Shelley  and  all,  without  mercy. 

"Yes,  he  was  awfully  funny.  Gee!  I  didn't  care  much 
for  him." 

"Of  course  you  know  he's  a  great  man,  however?" 
Istra  was  as  bland  as  though  she  had  meant  that  all 
along,  which  left  Mr.  Wrenn  nowhere  at  all  when  it  came 
to  deciding  what  she  meant. 

Without  warning  she  rose  from  the  steps,  flung  at  him 
"G9  night,"  and  was  off  down  the  street. 

Sitting  alone,  all  excited  happiness,  Mr.  Wrenn  mut 
tered:  "Ain't  she  a  wonder!  Gee!  she's  striking-lookin' ! 
Gee  whittakers!" 

Some  hours  later  he  said  aloud,  tossing  about  in  bed: 
"I  wonder  if  I  was  too  fresh.  I  hope  I  wasn't.  I  ought 
to  be  careful." 

He  was  so  worried  about  it  that  he  got  up  and  smoked 
a  cigarette,  remembered  that  he  was  breaking  still  another 
rule  by  smoking  too  much,  then  got  angry  and  snapped 
defiantly  at  his  suit-case:  "Well,  what  do  I  care  if  I  am 
smoking  too  much?  And  I'll  be  as  fresh  as  I  want  to." 
He  threw  a  newspaper  at  the  censorious  suit-case  and, 
much  relieved,  went  to  bed  to  dream  that  he  was  a  rabbit 
making  enormously  amusing  jests,  at  which  he  laughed 
rollickingly  in  half-dream,  till  he  realized  that  he  was 
being  awakened  by  the  sound  of  long  sobs  from  the  room 
of  Istra  Nash. 

Afternoon;  Mr.  Wrenn  in  his  room.  Miss  Nash  was 
back  from  tea,  but  there  was  not  a  sound  to  be  heard 
from  her  room,  though  he  listened  with  mouth  open,  bent 
forward  in  his  chair,  his  hands  clutching  the  wooden  seat, 
his  finger-tips  rubbing  nervously  back  and  forth  over  the 

90 


HE    MEETS    A   TEMPERAMENT 

rough  under-surface  of  the  wood.  He  wanted  to  help 
her — the  wonderful  lady  who  had  been  sobbing  in  the 
night.  He  had  a  plan,  in  which  he  really  believed,  to 
say  to  her,  "Please  let  me  help  you,  princess,  jus'  like  I 
was  a  knight." 

At  last  he  heard  her  moving  about.  He  rushed  down 
stairs  and  waited  on  the  stoop. 

When  she  came  out  she  glanced  down  and  smiled 
contentedly.  He  was  flutteringly  sure  that  she  expected 
to  see  him  there.  But  all  his  plan  of  proffering  assistance 
vanished  as  he  saw  her  impatient  eyes  and  her  splendors 
of  dress  —  another  tight  -  fitting  gown,  of  smoky  gray, 
with  faint  silvery  lights  gliding  along  the  fabric. 

She  sat  on  the  rail  above  him,  immediately,  unhesitat 
ingly,  and  answered  his  "Evenin"'  cheerfully. 

He  wanted  so  much  to  sit  beside  her,  to  be  friends  with 
her.  But,  he  felt,  it  took  courage  to  sit  beside  her.  She 
was  likely  to  stare  haughtily  at  him.  However,  he  did 
go  up  to  the  rail  and  sit,  shyly  kicking  his  feet,  beside  her, 
and  she  did  not  stare  haughtily.  Instead  she  moved 
over  an  inch  or  two,  glanced  at  him  almost  as  though 
they  were  sharing  a  secret,  and  said,  quietly: 

"I  thought  quite  a  bit  about  you  last  evening.  I 
believe  you  really  have  an  imagination,  even  though  you 
are  a  salesman — I  mean  so  many  don't;  you  know  how 
it  is." 

"Oh  yes." 

You  see,  Mr.  Wrenn  didn't  know  he  was  commonplace. 

(i After  I  left  here  last  night  I  went  over  to  Olympia 
Johns',  and  she  dragged  me  off  to  a  play.  I  thought  of 
you  at  it  because  there  was  an  imaginative  butler  in  it. 
You  don't  mind  my  comparing  you  to  a  butler,  do  you? 
He  was  really  quite  the  nicest  person  in  the  play,  y'  know. 
Most  of  it  was  gorgeously  rotten.  It  used  to  be  a  French 
farce,  but  they  sent  it  to  Sunday-school  and  gave  it  a  nice 
fresh  frock.  It  seemed  that  a  gentleman-tabby  had 
been  trying  to  make  a  match  between  his  nephew  and  his 

91 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

ward.  The  ward  arted.  Personally  I  think  it  was  by 
tonsorial  art.  But,  anyway,  the  uncle  knew  that  nothing 
brings  people  together  so  well  as  hating  the  same  person. 
You  know,  like  hating  the  cousin,  when  you're  a  kiddy, 
hating  the  cousin  that  always  keeps  her  nails  clean?" 

"Yes!    That's  so!" 

"So  he  turned  nasty,  and  of  course  the  nephew  and 
ward  clinched  till  death  did  them  part — which,  Fm  very 
sorry  to  have  to  tell  you,  death  wasn't  decent  enough  to 
do  on  the  stage.  If  the  play  could  only  have  ended  with 
everybody's  funeral  I  should  have  called  it  a  real  happy 
ending." 

Mr.  Wrenn  laughed  gratefully,  though  uncertainly. 
He  knew  that  she  had  made  jokes  for  him,  but  he  didn't 
exactly  know  what  they  were. 

"The  imaginative  butler,  he  was  rather  good.  But  the 
rest Ugh!" 

"That  must  have  been  a  funny  play,"  he  said,  politely. 

She  looked  at  him  sidewise  and  confided,  "Will  you  do 
me  a  favor?" 

"Oh  yes,  I " 

"Ever  been  married?" 

He  was  frightfully  startled.  His  "No"  sounded  as 
though  he  couldn't  quite  remember. 

She  seemed  much  amused.  You  wouldn't  have  be 
lieved  that  this  superior  quizzical  woman  who  tapped  her 
fingers  carelessly  on  her  slim  exquisite  knee  had  ever 
sobbed  in  the  night. 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  a  personal  question,"  she  said. 
"I  just  wanted  to  know  what  you're  like.  Don't  you 
ever  collect  people?  I  do — chloroform  'em  quite  cruelly 
and  pin  their  poor  little  corpses  out  on  nice  clean  corks. . .  . 
You  live  alone  in  New  York,  do  you  ?" 

"Y-yes." 

"Who  do  you  play  with — know?" 

"Not — not  much  of  anybody.  Except  maybe  Charley 
Carpenter.  He's  assistant  bookkeeper  for  the  Souvenir 

92 


HE   MEETS    A   TEMPERAMENT 

Company."  He  had  wanted  to,  and  immediately  de 
cided  not  to,  invent  grandes  mondes  whereof  he  was  an 
intimate. 

"What  do — oh,  you  know — people  in  New  York  who 
don't  go  to  parties  or  read  much — what  do  they  do  for 
amusement?  I'm  so  interested  in  types." 

"Well "  said  he. 

That  was  all  he  could  say  till  he  had  digested  a  pair  of 
thoughts:  Just  what  did  she  mean  by  "types"?  Had  it 
something  to  do  with  printing  stories?  And  what  could 
he  say  about  the  people,  anyway?  He  observed: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know — just  talk  about — oh,  cards  and  jobs 
and  folks  and  things  and — oh,  you  know;  go  to  moving 
pictures  and  vaudeville  and  go  to  Coney  Island  and — 
oh,  sleep." 

"But  you ?" 

"Well,  I  read  a  good  deal.  Quite  a  little.  Shakespeare 
and  geography  and  a  lot  of  stuff.  I  like  reading." 

"And  how  do  you  place  Nietzsche?"  she  gravely  de 
sired  to  know. 

(t  p» 

"Nietzsche.     You  know — the  German  humorist." 

"Oh  yes — uh — let  me  see  now;    he's — uh— 

"Why,  you  remember,  don't  you?  Haeckel  and  he 
wrote  the  great  musical  comedy  of  the  century.  And 
Matisse  did  the  music — Matisse  and  Rodin." 

"I  haven't  been  to  it,"  he  said,  vaguely.  "...  I  don't 
know  much  German.  Course  I  know  a  few  words,  like 
Spricken  Sie  Dutch  and  Bitty,  sir,  that  Rabin  at  the 
Souvenir  Company — he's  a  German  Jew,  I  guess — learnt 
me.  .  .  .  But,  say,  isn't  Kipling  great!  Gee!  when  I  read 
Kim  I  can  imagine  I'm  hiking  along  one  of  those  roads  in 
India  just  like  I  was  there — you  know,  all  those  magicians 
and  so  on.  ...  Readin's  wonderful,  ain't  it!" 

"Urn.     Yes." 

"I  bet  you  read  an  awful  lot." 

"Very  little.  Oh — D'Annunzio  and  some  Turgenev 

93 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

and  a  little  Tourgenieff.  .  .  .  That  last  was  a  joke,  you 
know." 

"Oh  yes,"  disconcertedly. 

"What  sorts  of  plays  do  you  go  to,  Mr.  Wrenn?" 

"Moving  pictures  mostly,"  he  said,  easily,  then  bitterly 
wished  he  hadn't  confessed  so  low-life  a  habit. 

"Well — tell  me,  my  dear Oh,  I  didn't  mean  that; 

artists  use  it  a  good  deal;  it  just  means  'old  chap/  You 
don't  mind  my  asking  such  beastly  personal  questions,  do 
you?  I'm  interested  in  people.  .  .  .  And  now  I  must  go  up 
and  write  a  letter.  I  was  going  over  to  Olympiads — she's 
one  of  the  Interesting  People  I  spoke  of — but  you  see  you 
have  been  much  more  amusing.  Good  night.  You're 
lonely  in  London,  aren't  you?  We'll  have  to  go  sight 
seeing  some  day." 

"Yes,  I  am  lonely!"  he  exploded.  Then,  meekly:  "Oh, 
thank  you!  I  sh'd  be  awful  pleased  to.  ...  Have  you  seen 
the  Tower,  Miss  Nash?" 

"No.     Never.     Have  you?" 

"No.  You  see,  I  thought  it 'd  be  kind  of  a  gloomy 
thing  to  see  all  alone.  Is  that  why  you  haven't  never 
been  there,  too?" 

"My  dear  man,  I  see  I  shall  have  to  educate  you.  Shall 
I  ?  I've  been  taken  in  hand  by  so  many  people — it  would 
be  a  pleasure  to  pass  on  the  implied  slur.  Shall  I?" 

"Please  do." 

"One  simply  doesn't  go  and  see  the  Tower,  because 
that's  what  trippers  do.  Don't  you  understand,  my  dear? 
(Pardon  the  'my  dear'  again.)  The  Tower  is  the  sort  of 
thing  school  superintendents  see  and  then  go  back  and 
lecture  on  in  school  assembly-room  and  the  G.  A.  R.  hall. 
I'll  take  you  to  the  Tate  Gallery."  Then,  very  abruptly, 
"G'  night,"  and  she  was  gone. 

He  stared  after  her  smooth  back,  thinking:  "Gee!  I 
wonder  if  she  got  sore  at  something  I  said.  I  don't  think 
I  was  fresh  this  time.  But  she  beat  it  so  quick.  .  .  .Them 
lips  of  hers — I  never  knew  there  was  such  red  lips.  And 

94 


HE    MEETS    A   TEMPERAMENT 

an  artist — paints  pictures!  .  .  .  Read  a  lot — Nitchy — 
German  musical  comedy.  Wonder  if  that's  that  'Merry- 
Widow'  thing?  .  .  .  That  gray  dress  of  hers  makes  me 
think  of  fog.  Cur'ous." 

In  her  room  Istra  Nash  inspected  her  nose  in  a  mirror, 
powdered,  and  sat  down  to  write,  on  thick  creamy  paper: 

Skilly  dear,  I'm  in  a  fierce  Bloomsbury  boarding-house — bores 
— except  for  a  Phe-nomenon — little  man  of  35  or  40  with  em 
bryonic  imagination  &  a  virgin  soul.  I'll  try  to  keep  from 
planting  radical  thoughts  in  the  virgin  soul,  but  I'm  tempted. 

Oh  Skilly  dear  I'm  lonely  as  the  devil.  Would  it  be  too 
bromid.  to  say  I  wish  you  were  here?  I  put  out  my  hand  in  the 
darkness,  &  yours  wasn't  there.  My  dear,  my  dear,  how 

desolate Oh  you  understand  it  only  too  well  with  your 

supercilious  grin  &  your  superior  eye-glasses  &  your  beatific 
Oxonian  ignorance  of  poor  eager  America. 

I  suppose  I  am  just  a  barbarous  Caiifornian  kiddy.  It's  just 
as  Pere  Dureon  said  at  the  atelier,  "You  haf  a'  onderstanding 
of  the  'igher  immorality,  but  I  'ope  you  can  cook — paint  you 
cannot." 

He  wins.  I  can't  sell  a  single  thing  to  the  art  editors  here 
or  get  one  single  order.  One  horrid  eye-glassed  earnest  youth 
who  Sees  People  at  a  magazine,  he  vouchsafed  that  they  "didn't 
use  any  Outsiders."  Outsiders!  And  his  hair  was  nearly  as 
red  as  my  wretched  mop.  So  I  came  home  &  howled  &  burned 
Milan  tapers  before  your  picture.  I  did.  Though  you  don't 
deserve  it. 

Oh  damn  it,  am  I  getting  sentimental?  You'll  read  this  at 
Petit  Monsard  over  your  drip  &  grin  at  your  poor  unnietzschean 
barbarian. 

I.  N. 


VIII 

HE  TIFFINS 

MR.  WRENN,  chewing  and  chewing  and  chewing  the 
cud  of  thought  in  his  room  next  evening,  after  an 
hour  had  proved  two  things;  thus: 

(a)  The  only  thing  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  go  back  to 
America  at  once,  because  England  was  a  country  where 
every  one — native  or  American — was  so  unfriendly  and  so 
vastly  wise  that  he  could  never  understand  them. 

(b)  The  one  thing  in  the  world  that  he  wanted  to  do 
was  to  be  right  here,  for  the  most  miraculous  event  of 
which  he  had  ever  heard  was  meeting  Miss  Nash.     First 
one,  then  the  other,  these  thoughts  swashed  back  and 
forth  like  the  swinging  tides.     He  got  away  from  them 
only  long  enough  to   rejoice  that  somehow — he  didn't 
know   how  —  he    was    going  to   be    her   most    intimate 
friend,  because  they  were  both  Americans  in  a  strange 
land  and  because  they  both  could  make-believe. 

Then  he  was  proving  that  Istra  would,  and  would  not, 
be  the  perfect  comrade  among  women  when  some  one 
knocked  at  his  door. 

Electrified,  his  cramped  body  shot  up  from  its  crouch, 
and  he  darted  to  the  door. 

Istra  Nash  stood  there,  tapping  her  foot  on  the  sill  with 
apologetic  haste  in  her  manner.  Abruptly  she  said: 

"So  sorry  to  bother  you.  I  just  wondered  if  you  could 
let  me  have  a  match?  I'm  all  out." 

"Oh  yes!  Here's  a  whole  box.  Please  take  'em.  I 
got  plenty  more."  [Which  was  absolutely  untrue.] 


HE   TIFFINS 

"Thank  you.  S'  good  o'  you,"  she  said,  hurriedly. 
"G'  night." 

She  turned  away,  but  he  followed  her  into  the  hall, 
bashfully  urging:  "Have  you  been  to  another  show? 
Gee!  I  hope  you  draw  a  better  one  next  time  5n  the  one 
about  the  guy  with  the  nephew." 

"Thank  you." 

She  glanced  back  in  the  half  dark  hall  from  her  door 
— some  fifteen  feet  from  his.  He  was  scratching  at 
the  wall-paper  with  a  diffident  finger,  hopeful  for  a 
talk. 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  she  said,  hesitatingly. 

"Oh,  thank  you,  but  I  guess  I  hadn't  better." 

Suddenly  she  flashed  out  the  humanest  of  smiles,  her 
blue-gray  eyes  crinkling  with  cheery  friendship.  "Come 
in,  come  in,  child."  As  he  hesitatingly  entered  she 
warbled:  "Needn't  both  be  so  lonely  all  the  time,  after 
all,  need  we?  Even  if  you  dont  like  poor  Istra.  You 
don't — do  you  ?"  Seemingly  she  didn't  expect  an  answer 
to  her  question,  for  she  was  busy  lighting  a  Russian 
cigarette.  It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had 
seen  a  woman  smoke. 

With  embarrassed  politeness  he  glanced  away  from  her 
as  she  threw  back  her  head  and  inhaled  deeply.  He 
blushingly  scrutinized  the  room. 

In  the  farther  corner  two  trunks  stood  open.  One  had 
the  tray  removed,  and  out  of  the  lower  part  hung  a  con 
fusion  of  lacey  things  from  which  he  turned  away  uncom 
fortable  eyes.  He  recognized  the  black-and-gold  burnoose, 
which  was  tumbled  on  the  bed,  with  a  nightgown  of  lace 
insertions  and  soft  wrinkles  in  the  lawn,  a  green  book  with 
a  paper  label  bearing  the  title  Three  Plays  for  Puritans, 
a  red  slipper,  and  an  open  box  of  chocolates. 

On  the  plain  kitchen-ware  table  was  spread  a  cloth  of 
Reseda  green,  like  a  dull  old  leaf  in  color.  On  it  lay  a 
gold-mounted  fountain-pen,  huge  and  stub-pointed;  a 
medley  of  papers  and  torn  envelopes,  a  bottle  of  Creme 

97 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Yvette,  and  a  silver-framed  portrait  of  a  lean  smiling  man 
with  a  single  eye-glass. 

Mr.  Wrenn  did  not  really  see  all  these  details,  but  he 
had  an  impression  of  luxury  and  high  artistic  success.  He 
considered  the  Yvette  flask  the  largest  bottle  of  perfume 
he'd  ever  seen;  and  remarked  that  there  was  "some 
guy's  picture  on  the  table."  He  had  but  a  moment  to 
reconnoiter,  for  she  was  astonishingly  saying: 

"So  you  were  lonely  when  I  knocked?" 

"Why,  how "    " 

"Oh,  I  could  see  it.  We  all  get  lonely,  don't  we?  I 
do,  of  course.  Just  now  I'm  getting  sorer  and  sorer  on 
Interesting  People.  I  think  I'll  go  back  to  Paris.  There 
even  the  Interesting  People  are — why,  they're  interesting. 
Savvy — you  see  I  am  an  American — savvy?" 

"Why — uh — uh — uh — I  d-don't  exactly  get  what  you 
mean.  How  do  you  mean  about  'Interesting  People'?" 

"My  dear  child,  of  course  you  don't  get  me."  She' 
went  to  the  mirror  and  patted  her  hair,  then  curled  on  the 
bed,  with  an  offhand  "Won't  you  sit  down?"  and  smoked 
elaborately,  blowing  the  blue  tendrils  toward  the  ceiling 
as  she  continued:  "Of  course  you  don't  get  it.  You're 
a  nice  sensible  clerk  who've  had  enough  real  work  to  do  to 
keep  you  from  being  afraid  that  other  people  will  think 
you're  commonplace.  You  don't  have  to  coddle  yourself 
into  working  enough  to  earn  a  living  by  talking  about 
temperament. 

"Why,  these  Interesting  People —  You  find  'em  in 
London  and  New  York  and  San  Francisco  just  the  same. 
They're  convinced  they're  the  wisest  people  on  earth. 
There's  a  few  artists  and  a  bum  novelist  or  two  always, 
and  some  social  workers.  The  particular  bunch  that  it 
amuses  me  to  hate  just  now — and  that  I  apparently  can't 
do  without — they  gather  around  Olympia  Johns,  who 
makes  a  kind  of  salon  out  of  her  rooms  on  Great  James 
Street,  off  Theobald's  Road.  .  .  .  They  might  just  as  well 
be  in  New  York;  but  they're  even  stodgier.  They  don't 

98 


HE    TIFFINS 

get  sick  of  the  game  of  being  on  intellectual  heights  as 
soon  as  New-Yorkers  do. 

"I'll  have  to  take  you  there.  It's  a  cheery  sensation, 
you  know,  to  find  a  man  who  has  some  imagination,  but 
who  has  been  unspoiled  by  Interesting  People,  and  take 
him  to  hear  them  wamble.  They  sit  around  and  growl 
and  rush  the  growler — I  hope  you  know  growler-rushing — 
and  rejoice  that  they're  free  spirits.  Being  Free,  of 
course,  they're  not  allowed  to  go  and  play  with  nice 
people,  for  when  a  person  is  Free,  you  know,  he  is  never 
free  to  be  anything  but  Free.  That  may  seem  confusing, 
but  they  understand  it  at  Olympia's. 

"Of  course  there's  different  sorts  of  intellectuals,  and 
each  cult  despises  all  the  others.  Mostly,  each  cult  con 
sists  of  one  person,  but  sometimes  there's  two — a  talker 
and  an  audience — or  even  three.  For  instance,  you  may 
be  a  militant  and  a  vegetarian,  but  if  some  one  is  a  militant 
and  has  a  good  figure,  why  then — oof!  .  .  .  That's  what 
I  mean  by  'Interesting  People.'  I  loathe  them!  So,  of 
course,  being  one  of  them,  I  go  from  one  bunch  to  another, 
and,  upon  my  honor,  every  single  time  I  think  that  the 
new  bunch  is  interesting!" 

Then  she  smoked  in  gloomy  silence,  while  Mr.  Wrenn 
remarked,  after  some  mental  labor,  "I  guess  they're  like 
cattlemen — the  cattle-ier  they  are,  the  more  romantic  they 
look,  and  then  when  you  get  to  know  them  the  chief  trouble 
with  them  is  that  they're  cattlemen." 

"Yes,  that's  it.  They're — why,  they're Oh,  poor 

dear,  there,  there,  there!  It  ska  n't  have  so  much  intel- 
lekchool  discussion,  shall  it!  ...  I  think  you're  a  very  nice 
person,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do.  We'll  have  a  small 
fire,  shall  we?  In  the  fireplace." 

"Yes!" 

She  pulled  the  old-fashioned  bell-cord,  and  the  old- 
fashioned  North  Country  landlady  came — tall,  thin, 
parchment-faced,  musty-looking  as  though  she  had  been 
dressed  up  in  Victorian  garments  in  1880  and  left  to  stand 

99 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

in  an  tmaired  parlor  ever  since.  She  glowered  silent  dis 
approval  at  the  presence  of  Mr.  Wrenn  in  Istra' s  room, 
but  sent  a  slavey  to  make  the  fire — "saxpence  uxtry." 
Mr.  Wrenn  felt  guilty  till  the  coming  of  the  slavey,  a  per 
fect  Christmas-story-book  slavey,  a  small  and  merry  lump 
of  soot,  who  sang  out,  "Chilly  t'-night,  ayn't  it?"  and 
made  a  fire  that  was  soon  singing  "Chilly  t'-night,"  like 
the  slavey. 

Istra  sat  on  the  floor  before  the  fire,  Turk-wise,  her 
quick  delicate  fingers  drumming  excitedly  on  her  knees. 

"Come  sit  by  me.  You,  with  your  sense  of  the  ro 
mantic,  ought  to  appreciate  sitting  by  the  fire.  You 
know  it's  always  done." 

He  slumped  down  by  her,  clasping  his  knees  and  trying 
to  appear  the  dignified  American  business  man  in  his 
country-house. 

She  smiled  at  him  intimately,  and  quizzed: 

"Tell  me  about  the  last  time  you  sat  with  a  girl  by  the 
fire.  Tell  poor  Istra  the  dark  secret.  Was  she  the  perfect 
among  pink  faces?" 

"  I've  —  never  —  sat  —  before  —  any — fireplace  — with 
— any — one!  Except  when  I  was  about  nine — one  Hal 
lowe'en — at  a  party  in  Parthenon — little  town  up  York 
State." 

"Really?     Poor  kiddy!" 

She  reached  out  her  hand  and  took  his.  He  was  terrifi 
cally  conscious  of  the  warm  smoothness  of  her  fingers  play 
ing  a  soft  tattoo  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  while  she  said: 

"But  you  have  been  in  love?     Drefful  in  love?" 

"I  never  have." 

"Dear  child,  you've  missed  so  much  of  the  tea  and 
cakes  of  life,  haven't  you?  And  you  have  an  interest  in 
life.  Do  you  know,  when  I  think  of  the  jaded  Interesting 

People  I've  met Why  do  I  leave  you  to  be  spoiled 

by  some  shop-girl  in  a  flowered  hat?  She'd  drag  you  to 
moving-picture  shows.  .  .  .  Oh!  You  didn't  tell  me  that 
you  went  to  moving  pictures,  did  you?" 

100 


HE   TIFFINS 

"No!"  he  lied,  fervently,  then,  feeling  guilty,  "I  used 
to,  but  no  more." 

"It  shall  go  to  the  nice  moving  pictures  if  it  wants  to! 
It  shall  take  me,  too.  We'll  forget  there  are  any  syndical 
ists  or  broken-colorists  for  a  while,  won't  we?  We'll  let 
the  robins  cover  us  with  leaves/' 

"You  mean  like  the  babes  in  the  woods?  But,  say, 
I'm  afraid  you  ain't  just  a  babe  in  the  woods!  You're  the 
first  person  with  brains  I  ever  met,  'cept,  maybe,  Dr. 
Mittyford;  and  the  Doc  never  would  play  games,  I  don't 
believe.  The  very  first  one,  really." 

"Thank  you!"  Her  warm  pressure  on  his  hand 
tightened.  •  His  heart  was  making  the  maddest  gladdest 
leaps,  and  timidly,  with  a  feeling  of  historic  daring,  he 
ventured  to  explore  with  his  thumb-tip  the  fine  lines  of  the 
side  of  her  hand.  ...  It  actually  was  he,  sitting  here  with  a 
princess,  and  he  actually  did  feel  the  softness  of  her  hand, 
he  pantingly  assured  himself. 

Suddenly  she  gave  his  hand  a  parting  pressure  and 
sprang  up. 

"Come.  We'll  have  tiffin,  and  then  I'll  send  you  away, 
and  to-morrow  we'll  go  see  the  Tate  Gallery." 

While  Istra  was  sending  the  slavey  for  cakes  and  a  pint 
of  light  wine  Mr.  Wrenn  sat  in  a  chair — just  sat  in  it;  he 
wanted  to  show  that  he  could  be  dignified  and  not  take 
advantage  of  Miss  Nash's  kindness  by  slouchin'  round. 
Having  read  much  Kipling,  he  had  an  idea  that  tiffin  was 
some  kind  of  lunch  in  the  afternoon,  but  of  course  if  Miss 
Nash  used  the  word  for  evening  supper,  then  he  had  been 
wrong. 

Istra  whisked  the  writing-table  with  the  Reseda-green 
cover  over  before  the  fire,  chucked  its  papers  on  the  bed, 
and  placed  a  bunch  of  roses  on  one  end,  moving  the  small 
blue  vase  two  inches  to  the  right,  then  two  inches  forward. 
The  wine  she  poured  into  a  decanter. 

Wine  was  distinctly  a  problem  to  him.  He  was  excited 
over  his  sudden  rise  into  a  society  where  one  took  wine  as 
&  101 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

a  matter  of  course.  Mrs.  Zapp  wouldn't  take  it  as  a 
matter  of  course.  He  rejoiced  that  he  wasn't  narrow- 
minded,  like  Mrs.  Zapp.  He  worked  so  hard  at  not 
being  narrow-minded  like  Mrs.  Zapp  that  he  started  when 
he  was  called  out  of  his  day-dream  by  a  mocking  voice: 
"  But  you  might  look  at  the  cakes.  Just  once,  anyway. 
They  are  very  nice  cakes." 

"Uh " 

"Yes,  I  know  the  wine  is  wine.     Beastly  of  it." 
"Say,  Miss  Nash,  I  did  get  you  this  time." 
"Oh,  don't  tell  me  that  my  presiding  goddessship  is 
over  already." 

"Uh — sure!     Now  Fm  going  to  be  a  cruel  boss." 
"Dee-lighted!     Are  you  going  to  be  a  caveman?" 
"I'm  sorry.     I  don't  quite  get  you  on  that." 
"That's  too  bad,  isn't  it.     I  think  I'd  rather  like  to 
meet  a  caveman." 

"Oh  say,  I  know  about  that  caveman — Jack  London's 
guys.  I'm  afraid  I  ain't  one.  Still  —  on  the  cattle- 
boat Say,  I  wish  you  could  of  seen  it  when  the  gang 

were  tying  up  the  bulls,  before  starting.  Dark  close  place 
'tween-decks,  with  the  steers  bellowin'  and  all  packed  tight 
together,  and  the  stiffs  gettin'  seasick — so  seasick  we  just 
kind  of  staggered  around;  and  we'd  get  hold  of  a  head 
rope  and  yank  and  then  let  go,  and  the  bosses  'd  yell, 
'Pull,  or  I'll  brain  you.'  And  then  the  fo'c'sle — men 
packed  in  like  herrings." 

She  was  leaning  over  the  table,  making  a  labyrinth  with 
the  currants  from  a  cake  and  listening  intently.  He 
stopped  politely,  feeling  that  he  was  talking  too  much. 
But,  "Go  on,  please  do,"  she  commanded,  and  he  told 
simply,  seeing  it  more  and  more,  of  Satan  and  the  Grena 
dier,  of  the  fairies  who  had  beckoned  to  him  from  the 
Irish  coast  hills,  and  the  comradeship  of  Morton. 

She  interrupted  only  once,  murmuring,  "My  dear,  it's 

a  good  thing  you're  articulate,  anyway "  which  didn't 

seem  to  have  any  bearing  on  hay-bales. 

IO2 


HE   TIFFINS 

She  sent  him  away  with  a  light  "It's  been  a  good  party, 
hasn't  it,  caveman  ?  (If  you  are  a  caveman.)  Call  for  me 
to-morrow  at  three.  We'll  go  to  the  Tate  Gallery." 

She  touched  his  hand  in  the  fleetingest  of  grasps. 

"Yes.     Good  night,  Miss  Nash,"  he  quavered. 

A  morning  of  planning  his  conduct  so  that  in  accom 
panying  Istra  Nash  to  the  Tate  Gallery  he  might  be  the 
faithful  shadow  and  beautiful  transcript  of  Mittyford, 
Ph.D.  As  a  result,  when  he  stood  before  the  large  can 
vases  of  Mr.  Watts  at  the  Tate  he  was  so  heavy  and  cor 
rectly  appreciative,  so  ready  not  to  enjoy  the  stones  in 
the  pictures  of  Millais,  that  Istra  suddenly  demanded: 

"Oh,  my  dear  child,  I  have  taken  a  great  deal  on  my 
hands.  You've  got  to  learn  to  play.  You  don't  know 
how  to  play.  Come.  I  shall  teach  you.  I  don't  know 
why  I  should,  either.  But — come." 

She  explained  as  they  left  the  gallery:  "First,  the  art  of 
riding  on  the  buses.  Oh,  it  is  an  art,  you  know.  You 
must  appreciate  the  flower-girls  and  the  gr-r-rand  young 
bobbies.  You  must  learn  to  watch  for  the  blossoms  on 
the  restaurant  terraces  and  roll  on  the  grass  in  the  parks. 
You're  much  too  respectable  to  roll  on  the  grass,  aren't 
you?  I'll  try  ever  so  hard  to  teach  you  not  to  be.  And 
we'll  go  to  tea.  How  many  kinds  of  tea  are  there?" 

"Oh,  Ceylon  and  English  Breakfast  and — oh — Chinese." 

((  T> J» 

"And  golf  tees!"  he  added,  excitedly,  as  they  took  a 
seat  in  front  atop  the  bus. 

"  Puns  are  a  beginning  at  least,"  she  reflected. 

"But  how  many  kinds  of  tea  are  there,  Istra?  .  .  .  Oh 
say,  I  hadn't  ought  to " 

"Course;  call  me  Istra  or  anything  else.  Only,  you 
mustn't  call  my  bluff.  What  do  I  know  about  tea?  All 
of  us  who  play  are  bluffers,  more  or  less,  and  we  are 
ever  so  polite  in  pretending  not  to  know  the  others  are 
bluffing.  .  .  .  There's  lots  of  kinds  of  tea.  In  the  New 

103 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

York  Chinatown  I  saw  once Do  you  know  China 
town?     Being  a  New-Yorker,  I  don't  suppose  you  do." 

"Oh  yes.  And  Italiantown.  I  used  to  wander  round 
there/' 

"Well,  down  at  the  Seven  Flowery  Kingdoms  Chop 
Suey  and  American  Cooking  there's  tea  at  five  dollars  a 
cup  that  they  advertise  is  grown  on  'cloud-covered  moun 
tain-tops.'  I  suppose  when  the  tops  aren't  cloud-covered 
they  only  charge  three  dollars  a  cup.  .  .  .  But,  serious- 
like,  there's  really  only  two  kinds  of  teas — those  you  go 
to  to  meet  the  man  you  love  and  ought  to  hate,  and  those 
you  give  to  spite  the  women  you  hate  but  ought  to — hate! 
Isn't  that  lovely  and  complicated?  That's  playing. 
With  words.  My  aged  parent  calls  it  'talking  too  much 
and  not  saying  anything.'  Note  that  last — not  saying 
anything!  It's  one  of  the  rules  in  playing  that  mustn't 
be  broken." 

He  understood  that  better  than  most  of  the  things  she 
said.  "Why,"  he  exclaimed,  "it's  kind  of  talking  side 
ways." 

"Why,  yes.  Of  course.  Talking  sideways.  Don't  you 
see  now?" 

Gallant  gentleman  as  he  was,  he  let  her  think  she  had 
invented  the  phrase. 

She  said  many  other  things;  things  implying  such  vast 
learning  that  he  made  gigantic  resolves  to  "read  like 
thunder." 

Her  great  lesson  was  the  art  of  taking  tea.  He  found, 
surprisedly,  that  they  weren't  really  going  to  endanger 
their  clothes  by  rolling  on  park  grass.  Instead,  she  led 
him  to  a  tea-room  behind  a  candy-shop  on  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  a  low  room  with  white  wicker  chairs,  colored 
tiles  set  in  the  wall,  and  green  Sedji-ware  jugs  with  irregular 
bunches  of  white  roses.  A  waitress  with  wild-rose  cheeks 
and  a  busy  step  brought  Orange  Pekoe  and  lemon  for  her, 
Ceylon  and  Russian  Caravan  tea  and  a  jug  of  clotted 
cream  for  him,  with  a  pile  of  cinnamon  buns. 

104 


HE   TIFFINS 

"  But "  said  Istra.  "Isn't  this  like  Alice  in  Wonder 
land!  But  you  must  learn  the  buttering  of  English 
muffins  most  of  all.  If  you  get  to  be  very  good  at  it  the 
flunkies  will  let  you  take  tea  at  the  Carleton.  They  are 
such  hypercritical  flunkies,  and  the  one  that  brings  the 
gold  butter-measuring  rod  to  test  your  skill,  why,  he 
always  wears  knee-breeches  of  silver  gray.  So  you  can 
see,  Billy,  how  careful  you  have  to  be.  And  eat  them 
without  buttering  your  nose.  For  if  you  butter  your 
nose  they'll  think  you're  a  Greek  professor.  And  you 
wouldn't  like  that,  would  you,  honey?" 

He  learned  how  to  pat  the  butter  into  the  comfortable 
brown  insides  of  the  muffins  that  looked  so  cold  and 
floury  without.  But  Istra  seemed  to  have  lost  interest; 
and  he  didn't  in  the  least  follow  her  when  she  observed: 

"Doubtless  it  was  the  best  butter.  But  where,  where, 
dear  dormouse,  are  the  hatter  and  hare?  Especially  the 
sweet  bunny  rabbit  that  wriggled  his  ears  and  loved 
Gralice,  the  princesse  d'outre-mer. 

"Where,  where  are  the  hatter  and   hare, 
And  where  is  the  best  butter  gone?" 

Presently:  "Come  on.  Let's  beat  it  down  to  Soho  for 
dinner.  Or — no!  Now  you  shall  lead  me.  Show  me 
where  you'd  go  for  dinner.  And  you  shall  take  me  to  a 
music-hall,  and  make  me  enjoy  it.  Now  you  teach  me  to 
play." 

"Gee!  I'm  afraid  I  don't  know  a  single  thing  to  teach 
you." 

"Yes,  but See  here!     We  are  two  lonely  Western 

barbarians  in  a  strange  land.  We'll  play  together  for  a 
little  while.  We're  not  used  to  each  other's  sort  of  play, 
but  that  will  break  up  the  monotony  of  life  all  the  more. 
I  don't  know  how  long  we'll  play  or Shall  we?" 

"Oh  yes!" 

"Now  show  me  how  you  play." 

105 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"I  don't  believe  I  ever  did  much,  really." 

"Well,  you  shall  take  me  to  your  kind  of  a  restaurant." 

"I  don't  believe  you'd  care  much  for  penny  meat- 
pies." 

"Little  meat-pies?" 

"Um-huh." 

"Little  crispy  ones?    With  flaky  covers?" 

"Um-huh." 

"Why,  course  I  would!  And  ha'p'ny  tea?  Lead  me 
to  it,  O  brave  knight!  And  to  a  vaudeville." 

He  found  that  this  devoted  attendant  of  theaters  had 
never  seen  the  beautiful  Italians  who  pounce  upon  pro 
testing  zylophones  with  small  clubs,  or  the  side-splitting 
juggler's  assistant  who  breaks  up  piles  and  piles  of  plates. 
And  as  to  the  top  hat  that  turns  into  an  accordion  and 
produces  much  melody,  she  was  ecstatic. 

At  after-theater  supper  he  talked  of  Theresa  and  South 
Beach,  of  Charley  Carpenter  and  Morton — Morton — 
Morton. 

They  sat,  at  midnight,  on  the  steps  of  the  house  in 
Tavistock  Place. 

"I  do  know  you  now,"  she  mused.  "It's  curious  how 
any  two  babes  in  a  strange-enough  woods  get  acquainted. 
You  are  a  lonely  child,  aren't  you?"  Her  voice  was 
mother-soft.  "We  will  play  just  a  little— 

"I  wish  I  had  some  games  to  teach.  But  you  know  so 
much." 

"And  I'm  a  perfect  beauty,  too,  aren't  I?"  she  said, 
gravely. 

"Yes,  you  are!"  stoutly. 

"You  would  be  loyal.  .  .  .  And  I  need  some  one's  ad 
miration.  .  .  .  Mostly,  Paris  and  London  hold  their  sides 
laughing  at  poor  Istra." 

He  caught  her  hand.  "Oh,  don't!  They  must  'pre 
date  you.  I'd  like  to  kill  anybody  that  didn't!" 

"Thanks."  She  gave  his  hand  a  return  pressure  and 
hastily  withdrew  her  own.  "You'll  be  good  to  some 

106 


HE    TIFFINS 

sweet  pink  face.  .  .  .  And  I'll  go  on  being  discontented. 
Oh,  isn't  life  the  fiercest  proposition! . . .  We  seem  different, 
you  and  I,  but  maybe  it's  mostly  surface — down  deep 
we're  alike  in  being  desperately  unhappy  because  we  never 
know  what  we're  unhappy  about.  Well " 

He  wanted  to  put  his  head  down  on  her  knees  and  rest 
there.  But  he  sat  still,  and  presently  their  cold  hands 
snuggled  together. 

After  a  silence,  in  which  they  were  talking  of  them 
selves,  he  burst  out:  "But  I  don't  see  how  Paris  could 
help  'predating  you.  I'll  bet  you're  one  of  the  best 
artists  they  ever  saw.  .  .  .  The  way  you  made  up  a  picture 
in  your  mind  about  that  juggler!" 

"Nope.     Sorry.     Can't  paint  at  all." 

"Ah,  stuff!"  with  a  rudeness  quite  masterful.  "I'll 
bet  your  pictures  are  corkers." 

"Urn." 

"Please,  would  you  let  me  see  some  of  them  some  time. 
I  suppose  it  would  bother " 

"Come  up-stairs.  I  feel  inspired.  You  are  about  to 
hear  some  great  though  nasty  criticisms  on  the  works  of 
the  unfortunate  Miss  Nash." 

She  led  the  way,  laughing  to  herself  over  something. 
She  gave  him  no  time  to  blush  and  hesitate  over  the 
impropriety  of  entering  a  lady's  room  at  midnight,  but 
stalked  ahead  with  a  brief  "Come  in." 

She  opened  a  large  portfolio  covered  with  green-veined 
black  paper  and  yanked  out  a  dozen  unframed  pastels  and 
wash-drawings  which  she  scornfully  tossed  on  the  bed, 
saying,  as  she  pointed  to  a  mass  of  Marseilles  roofs: 

"  Do  you  see  this  sketch  ?  The  only  good  thing  about  it 
is  the  thing  that  last  art  editor,  that  red-headed  youth, 
probably  didn't  like.  Don't  you  hate  red  hair?  You  see 
these  ridiculous  glaring  purple  shadows  under  the  docker?" 

She  stared  down  at  the  picture  interestedly,  forgetting 
him,  pinching  her  chin  thoughtfully,  while  she  murmured: 
"They're  rather  nice.  Rather  good.  Rather  good." 

107 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Then,  quickly  twisting  her  shoulders  about,  she  poured 
out: 

"But  look  at  this.  Consider  this  arch.  It's  miserably 
out  of  drawing.  And  see  how  Fve  faked  this  figure?  It 
isn't  a  real  person  at  all.  Don't  you  notice  how  I've 
juggled  with  this  stairway?  Why,  my  dear  man,  every 
bit  of  the  drawing  in  this  thing  would  disgrace  a  seventh- 
grade  drawing-class  in  Dos  Puentes.  And  regard  the 
bunch  of  lombardies  in  this  other  picture.  They  look 
like  umbrellas  upside  down  in  a  silly  wash-basin.  Uff! 
It's  terrible.  Afreux!  Don't  act  as  though  you  liked 
them.  You  really  needn't,  you  know.  Can't  you  see 
now  that  they're  hideously  out  of  drawing?" 

Mr.  Wrenn's  fancy  was  walking  down  a  green  lane  of 
old  France  toward  a  white  cottage  with  orange-trees 
gleaming  against  its  walls.  In  her  pictures  he  had 
found  the  land  of  all  his  forsaken  dreams. 

"I — I — I "  was  all  he  could  say,  but  admiration 

pulsed  in  it. 

"Thank  you.  .  .  .  Yes,  we  will  play.  Good  night. 
To-morrow!" 


IX 

HE    ENCOUNTERS   THE   INTELLECTUALS 

HE  wanted  to  find  a  cable  office,  stalk  in,  and  non 
chalantly  send  to  his  bank  for  more  money.  He 
could  see  himself  doing  it.  Maybe  the  cable  clerk  would 
think  he  was  a  rich  American.  What  did  he  care  if  he 
spent  all  he  had?  A  guy,  he  admonished  himself,  just 
had  to  have  coin  when  he  was  goin'  with  a  girl  like  Miss 
Istra.  At  least  seven  times  he  darted  up  from  the  door 
step,  where  he  was  on  watch  for  her,  and  briskly  trotted  as 
far  as  the  corner.  Each  time  his  courage  melted,  and  he 
slumped  back  to  the  door-step.  Sending  for  money — gee, 
he  groaned,  that  was  pretty  dangerous. 

Besides,  he  didn't  wish  to  go  away.  Istra  might  come 
down  and  play  with  him. 

For  three  hours  he  writhed  on  that  door-step,  till  he 
came  to  hate  it;  it  was  as  much  a  prison  as  his  room  at 
the  Zapps'  had  been.  He  hated  the  areaway  grill,  and  a 
big  brown  spot  on  the  pavement,  and,  as  a  truck-driver 
hates  a  motorman,  so  did  he  hate  a  pudgy  woman  across 
the  street  who  peeped  out  from  a  second-story  window  and 
watched  him  with  cynical  interest.  He  finally  could 
endure  no  longer  the  world's  criticism,  as  expressed  by 
the  woman  opposite.  He  started  as  though  he  were  going 
to  go  right  now  to  some  place  he  had  been  intending 
to  go  to  all  the  time,  and  stalked  away,  ignoring  the 
woman. 

He  caught  a  bus,  then  another,  then  walked  a  while. 
Now  that  he  was  moving,  he  was  agonizedly  considering  his 

109 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

problem:  What  was  Istra  to  him,  really?  What  could  he 
be  to  her?  He  was  just  a  clerk.  She  could  never  love 
him.  "And  of  course,"  he  explained  to  himself,  "you 
hadn't  oughta  love  a  person  without  you  expected  to 
marry  them;  you  oughtn't  never  even  touch  her  hand." 
Yet  he  did  want  to  touch  hers.  He  suddenly  threw  his 
chin  back,  high  and  firm,  in  defiance.  He  didn't  care  if 
he  was  wicked,  he  declared.  He  wanted  to  shout  to  Istra 
across  all  the  city:  Let  us  be  great  lovers !  Let  us  be  mad! 
Let  us  stride  over  the  hilltops.  Though  that  was  not  at 
all  the  wTay  he  phrased  it. 

Then  he  bumped  into  a  knot  of  people  standing  on  the 
walk,  and  came  down  from  the  hilltops  in  one  swoop. 

A  crowd  was  collecting  before  Rothsey  Hall,  which 
bore  the  sign: 

GLORY— GLORY— GLORY 
SPECIAL  SALVATION  ARMY  JUBILEE  MEETING 

EXPERIENCES    OF   ADJUTANT   CRABBENTHWAITE    IN  AFRICA 

He  gaped  at  the  sign.  A  Salvationist  in  the  crowd, 
trim  and  well  set  up,  his  red-ribboned  Salvation  Army 
cap  at  a  jaunty  angle,  said,  "Won't  you  come  in,  brother?" 

Mr.  Wrenn  meekly  followed  into  the  hall.  Bill  Wrenn 
was  nowhere  in  sight. 

Now  it  chanced  that  Adjutant  Crabbenthwaite  told 
much  of  Houssas  and  the  N'Gombi,  of  saraweks  and 
week-long  treks,  but  Mr.  Wrenn's  imagination  was  not 
for  a  second  drawn  to  Africa,  nor  did  he  even  glance  at 
the  sun-bonneted  Salvationist  women  packed  in  the  hall. 
He  was  going  over  and  over  the  Adjutant's  denunciations 
of  the  Englishmen  and  Englishwomen  who  flirt  on  the 
mail-boats. 

Suppose  it  had  been  himself  and  his  madness  over  Istra 
— at  the  moment  he  quite  called  it  madness — that  the 
Adjutant  had  denounced! 

no 


THE    INTELLECTUALS 

A  Salvationist  near  by  was  staring  at  him  most  accus 
ingly.  .  .  . 

He  walked  away  from  the  jubilee  reflectively.  He  ate 
his  dinner  with  a  grave  courtesy  toward  the  food  and  the 
waiter.  He  was  positively  courtly  to  his  fork.  For  he 
was  just  reformed.  He  was  going  to  "steer  clear"  of  mad 
artist  women — of  all  but  nice  good  girls  whom  you  could 
marry.  He  remembered  the  Adjutant's  thundered  words: 

*' Flirting  you  call  it — flirting!  Look  into  your  hearts. 
God  Himself  hath  looked  into  them  and  found  flirtation 
the  gateway  to  hell.  And  I  tell  you  that  these  army 
officers  and  the  bedizened  women,  with  their  wine  and 
cigarettes,  with  their  devil's  calling-cards  and  their  jewels, 
with  their  hell-lighted  talk  of  the  sacrilegious  follies  of 
socialism  and  art  and  horse-racing,  O  my  brothers,  it  was 
all  but  a  cloak  for  looking  upon  one  another  to  lust  after 
one  another.  Rotten  is  this  empire,  and  shall  fall  when 
our  soldiers  seek  flirtation  instead  of  kneeling  in  prayer 
like  the  iron  men  of  Cromwell." 

Istra.  .  .  .  Card-playing.  .  .  .  Talk  of  socialism  and  art. 
Mr.  Wrenn  felt  very  guilty.  Istra.  .  .  .  Smoking  and 
drinking  wine.  .  .  .  But  his  moral  reflections  brought  the 
picture  of  Istra  the  more  clearly  before  him — the  per 
suasive  warmth  of  her  perfect  fingers;  the  curve  of  her 
backward-bent  throat  as  she  talked  in  her  melodious 
voice  of  all  the  beautiful  things  made  by  the  wise  hands 
of  great  men. 

He  dashed  out  of  the  restaurant.  No  matter  what  hap 
pened,  good  or  bad,  he  had  to  see  her.  While  he  was 
climbing  to  the  upper  deck  of  a  bus  he  was  trying  to 
invent  an  excuse  for  seeing  her.  ...  Of  course  one  couldn't 
"go  and  call  on  ladies  in  their  rooms  without  havin'  some 
special  excuse;  they  would  think  that  was  awful  fresh." 

He  left  the  bus  midway,  at  the  sign  of  a  periodical  shop, 
and  purchased  a  Blackwood's  and  a  Nineteenth  Century. 
Morton  had  told  him  these  were  the  chief  English  "high 
brow  magazines." 

in 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

He  carried  them  to  his  room,  rubbed  his  thumb  in  the 
lampblack  on  the  gas-fixture,  and  smeared  the  magazine 
covers,  then  cut  the  leaves  and  ruffled  the  margins  to 
make  the  magazines  look  dog-eared  with  much  reading; 
not  because  he  wanted  to  appear  to  have  read  them,  but 
because  he  felt  that  Istra  would  not  permit  him  to  buy 
things  just  for  her. 

All  this  business  with  details  so  calmed  him  that  he 
wondered  if  he  really  cared  to  see  her  at  all.  Besides,  it 
was  so  late — after  half-past  eight. 

"Rats!  Hang  it  all!  I  wish  I  was  dead.  I  don't 
know  what  I  do  want  to  do,"  he  groaned,  and  cast  him 
self  upon  his  bed.  He  was  sure  of  nothing  but  the  fact 
that  he  was  unhappy.  He  considered  suicide  in  a  digni 
fied  manner,  but  not  for  long  enough  to  get  much  fright 
ened  about  it. 

He  did  not  know  that  he  was  the  toy  of  forces  which, 
working  on  him  through  the  strangeness  of  passionate 
womanhood,  could  have  made  him  a  great  cad  or  a  petty 
hero  as  easily  as  they  did  make  him  confusedly  sorry  for 
himself.  That  he  wasn't  very  much  of  a  cad  or  anything 
of  a  hero  is  a  detail,  an  accident  resulting  from  his  thirty- 
five  or  thirty-six  years  of  stodgy  environment.  Cad  or 
hero,  filling  scandal  columns  or  histories,  he  would  have 
been  the  same  William  Wrenn. 

He  was  thinking  of  Istra  as  he  lay  on  his  bed.  In  a 
few  minutes  he  dashed  to  his  bureau  and  brushed  his 
thinning  hair  so  nervously  that  he  had  to  try  three  times 
for  a  straight  parting.  While  brushing  his  eyebrows  and 
mustache  he  solemnly  contemplated  himself  in  the  mirror. 

"I  look  like  a  damn  rabbit,"  he  scorned,  and  marched 
half-way  to  Istra's  room.  He  went  back  to  change  his 
tie  to  a  navy-blue  bow  which  made  him  appear  younger. 
He  was  feeling  rather  resentful  at  everything,  including 
Istra,  as  he  finally  knocked  and  heard  her  "Yes?  Come 
in." 

There  was  in  her  room  a  wonderful  being  lolling  in  a 

112 


THE    INTELLECTUALS 

wing-chair,  one  leg  over  the  chair-arm;  a  young  young 
man,  with  broken  brown  teeth,  always  seen  in  his  perpet 
ual  grin,  but  a  godlike  Grecian  nose,  a  high  forehead,  and 
bristly  yellow  hair.  The  being  wore  large  round  tortoise- 
shell  spectacles,  a  soft  shirt  with  a  gold-plated  collar-pin, 
and  delicately  gray  garments. 

Istra  was  curled  on  the  bed  in  a  leaf-green  silk  kimono 
with  a  great  gold-mounted  medallion  pinned  at  her 
breast.  Mr.  Wrenn  tried  not  to  be  shocked  at  the  kimono. 

She  had  been  frowning  as  he  came  in  and  fingering  a 
long  thin  green  book  of  verses,  but  she  glowed  at  Mr. 
Wrenn  as  though  he  were  her  most  familiar  friend, 
murmuring,  "Mouse  dear,  Fm  so  glad  you  could  come 
in." 

Mr.  Wrenn  stood  there  awkwardly.  He  hadn't  ex 
pected  to  find  another  visitor.  He  seemed  to  have  heard 
her  call  him  "Mouse."  Yes,  but  what  did  Mouse  mean? 
It  wasn't  his  name  at  all.  This  was  all  very  confusing. 
But  how  awful  glad  she  was  to  see  him! 

"Mouse  dear,  this  is  one  of  our  best  little  indecent 
poets,  Mr.  Carson  Haggerty.  From  America — California 
— too.  Mr.  Hag'ty,  Mr.  Wrenn." 

"  Pleased  meet  you,"  said  both  men  in  the  same  tone  of 
annoyance. 

Mr.  Wrenn  implored:  "I — uh — I  thought  you  might 
like  to  look  at  these  magazines.  Just  dropped  in  to  give 
them  to  you."  He  was  ready  to  go. 

"Thank  you — so  good  of  you.  Please  sit  down. 
Carson  and  I  were  only  fighting — he's  going  pretty  soon. 
We  knew  each  other  at  art  school  in  Berkeley.  Now  he 
knows  all  the  toffs  in  London." 

"Mr.  Wrenn,"  said  the  best  little  poet,  "I  hope  you'll 
back  up  my  contention.  Izzy  says  th " 

"Carson,  I  have  told  you  just  about  enough  times  that 
I  do  not  intend  to  stand  for  'Izzy'  any  more!  I  should 
think  that  even  you  would  be  able  to  outgrow  the  standard 
of  wit  that  obtains  in  first-year  art  class  at  Berkeley." 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Mr.  Haggerty  showed  quite  all  of  his  ragged  teeth  in  a 
noisy  joyous  grin  and  went  on,  unperturbed:  "Miss  Nash 
says  that  the  best  European  thought,  personally  gathered 
in  the  best  salons,  shows  that  the  Rodin  vogue  is  getting 
the  pickle-eye  from  all  the  real  yearners.  What  is  your 
opinion  ?" 

Mr.  Wrenn  turned  to  Istra  for  protection.  She  promptly 
announced:  "Mr.  Wrenn  absolutely  agrees  with  me.  By 
the  way,  he's  doing  a  big  book  on  the  recrudescence  of 
Kipling,  after  his  slump,  and " 

"Oh,  come  off,  now!  Kipling!  Blatant  imperialist, 
anti-Stirner!"  cried  Carson  Haggerty,  kicking  out  each 
word  with  the  assistance  of  his  swinging  left  foot. 

Much  relieved  that  the  storm-center  had  passed  over 
him,  Mr.  Wrenn  sat  on  the  front  edge  of  a  cane-seated 
chair,  with  the  magazines  between  his  hands,  and  his 
hands  pressed  between  his  forward-cocked  knees.  Al 
ways,  in  the  hundreds  of  times  he  went  over  the  scene  in 
that  room  afterward,  he  remembered  how  cool  and 
smooth  the  magazine  covers  felt  to  the  palms  of  his 
flattened  hands.  For  he  associated  the  papery  surfaces 
with  the  apprehension  he  then  had  that  Istra  might  give 
him  up  to  the  jag-toothed  grin  of  Carson  Haggerty,  who 
would  laugh  him  out  of  the  room  and  out  of  Istra's  world. 

He  hated  the  poetic  youth,  and  would  gladly  have 
broken  all  of  Carson's  teeth  short  off.  Yet  the  dread 
of  having  to  try  the  feat  himself  made  him  admire  the 
manner  in  which  Carson  tossed  about  long  creepy-sound 
ing  words,  like  a  bush-ape  playing  with  scarlet  spiders. 
He  talked  insultingly  of  Yeats  and  the  commutation  of 
sex-energy  and  Isadora  Duncan  and  the  poetry  of  Carson 
Haggerty. 

Istra  yawned  openly  on  the  bed,  kicking  a  pillow,  but 
she  was  surprised  into  energetic  discussion  now  and  then, 
till  Haggerty  intentionally  called  her  Izzy  again,  when 
she  sat  up  and  remarked  to  Mr.  Wrenn:  "Oh,  don't  go 
yet.  You  can  tell  me  about  the  article  when  Carson 

114 


THE    INTELLECTUALS 

goes.  Dear  Carson  said  he  was  only  going  to  stay  till 
ten." 

Mr.  Wrenn  hadn't  had  any  intention  of  going,  so  he 
merely  smiled  and  bobbed  his  head  to  the  room  in  general, 
and  stammered  "Y-yes,"  while  he  tried  to  remember 
what  he  had  told  her  about  some  article.  Article.  Per 
haps  it  was  a  Souvenir  Company  novelty  article.  Great 
idea!  Perhaps  she  wanted  to  design  a  motto  for  them. 
He  decidedly  hoped  that  he  could  fix  it  up  for  her — he'd 
sure  do  his  best.  He'd  be  glad  to  write  over  to  Mr. 
Guilfogle  about  it.  Anyway,  she  seemed  willing  to  have 
him  stick  here. 

Yet  when  dear  Carson  had  jauntily  departed,  leaving 
the  room  still  loud  with  the  smack  of  his  grin,  Istra  seemed 
to  have  forgotten  that  Mr.  Wrenn  was  alive.  She  was 
scowling  at  a  book  on  the  bed  as  though  it  had  said  things 
to  her.  So  he  sat  quiet  and  crushed  the  magazine  covers 
more  closely  till  the  silence  choked  him,  and  he  dared, 
"Mr.  Carson  is  an  awful  well-educated  man." 

"He's  a  bounder,"  she  snapped.  She  softened  her 
voice  as  she  continued:  "He  was  in  the  art  school  in 
California  when  I  was  there,  and  he  presumes  on  that. 
...  It  was  good  of  you  to  stay  and  help  me  get  rid  of  him. 

.  .  .  I'm  getting I'm  sorry  I'm  so  dull  to-night.  I 

suppose  I'll  get  sent  off  to  bed  right  now,  if  I  can't  be 
more  entertaining.  It  was  sweet  of  you  to  come  in, 
Mouse.  .  .  .  You  don't  mind  my  calling  you  *  Mouse/  do 
you  ?  I  won't,  if  you  do  mind." 

He  awkwardly  walked  over  and  laid  the  magazines  on 
the  bed.  "Why,  it's  all  right.  .  .  .  What  was  it  about 
some  novelty — some  article?  If  there's  anything  I  could 
do — anything " 

"Article?" 

"Why,  yes.     That  you  wanted  to  see  me  about." 

"Oh!  Oh,  that  was  just  to  get  rid  of  Carson.  .  .  .  His 
insufferable  familiarity!  The  penalty  for  my  having  been 
a  naive  kiddy,  hungry  for  friendship,  once.  And  now, 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

good  n .  Oh,  Mouse,  he  says  my  eyes — even  with 

this  green  kimono  on Come  here,  dear;  tell  me 

what  color  my  eyes  are." 

She  moved  with  a  quick  swing  to  the  side  of  her  bed. 
Thrusting  out  her  two  arms,  she  laid  ivory  hands  clutch- 
ingly  on  his  shoulder.  He  stood  quaking,  forgetting 
every  one  of  the  Wrennish  rules  by  which  he  had  edged 
a  shy  polite  way  through  life.  He  fearfully  reached  out 
his  hands  toward  her  shoulders  in  turn,  but  his  arms  were 
shorter  than  hers,  and  his  hands  rested  on  the  sensitive 
warmth  of  her  upper  arms.  He  peered  at  those  dear 
gray-blue  eyes  of  hers,  but  he  could  not  calm  himself 
enough  to  tell  whether  they  were  china-blue  or  basalt- 
black. 

"Tell  me,"  she  demanded;  "aren't  they  green?" 

"Yes,"  he  quavered. 

"You're  sweet,"  she  said. 

Leaning  out  from  the  side  of  her  bed,  she  kissed  him. 
She  sprang  up,  and  hastened  to  the  window,  laughing 
nervously,  and  deploring:  "I  shouldn't  have  done  that! 
I  shouldn't!  Forgive  me!"  Plaintively,  like  a  child: 
"Istra  was  so  bad,  so  bad.  Now  you  must  go."  As  she 
turned  back  to  him  her  eyes  had  the  peace  of  an  old 
friend's. 

Because  he  had  wished  to  be  kind  to  people,  because  he 
had  been  pitiful  toward  Goaty  Zapp,  Mr.  Wrenn  was 
able  to  understand  that  she  was  trying  to  be  a  kindly 
big  sister  to  him,  and  he  said  "Good  night,  Istra,"  and 
smiled  in  a  lively  way  and  walked  out.  He  got  out  the 
smile  by  wrenching  his  nerves,  for  which  he  paid  in 
agony  as  he  knelt  by  his  bed,  acknowledging  that  Istra 
would  never  love  him  and  that  therefore  he  was  not  to 
love,  would  be  a  fool  to  love,  never  would  love  her — and 
seeing  again  her  white  arms  softly  shadowed  by  her  green 
kimono  sleeves. 

No  sight  of  Istra,  no  scent  of  her  hair,  no  sound  of  her 
always-changing  voice  for  two  days.  Twice,  seeing  a 

116 


THE    INTELLECTUALS 

sliver  of  light  under  her  door  as  he  came  up  the  darkened 
stairs,  he  knocked,  but  there  was  no  answer,  and  he 
marched  into  his  room  with  the  dignity  of  fury. 

Numbers  of  times  he  quite  gave  her  up,  decided  he 
wanted  never  to  see  her  again.  But  after  one  of  the 
savagest  of  these  renunciations,  while  he  was  stamping 
defiantly  down  Tottenham  Court  Road,  he  saw  in  a  win 
dow  a  walking-stick  that  he  was  sure  she  would  like  his 
carrying.  And  it  cost  only  two-and-six.  Hastily,  befoi  ^ 
he  changed  his  mind,  he  rushed  in  and  slammed  down  his 
money.  It  was  a  very  beautiful  stick  indeed,  and  of  a 
modesty  to  commend  itself  to  Istra,  just  a  plain  straight 
stick  with  a  cap  of  metal  curiously  like  silver.  He  was 
conscious  that  the  whole  world  was  leering  at  him,  de 
manding  "What  're  you  carrying  a  cane  for?"  but  he — the 
misunderstood — was  willing  to  wait  for  the  reward  of 
this  martyrdom  in  Istra' s  approval. 

The  third  night,  as  he  stood  at  the  window  watching 
two  children  playing  in  the  dusk,  there  was  a  knock.  It 
was  Istra.  She  stood  at  his  door,  smart  and  inconspicuous 
in  a  black  suit  with  a  small  toque  that  hid  the  flare  of  her 
red  hair. 

"Come,"  she  said,  abruptly.  "I  want  you  to  take  me 
to  Olympia' s — Olympia  Johns'  flat.  I've  been  reading 
all  the  Balzac  there  is.  I  want  to  talk.  Can  you  come?" 

"Oh,  of  course " 

"Hurry,  then!" 

He  seized  his  small  foolishly  round  hat,  and  he  tucked 
his  new  walking-stick  under  his  arm  without  displaying  it 
too  proudly,  waiting  for  her  comment. 

She  led  the  way  down-stairs  and  across  the  quiet  streets 
ard  squares  of  Bloomsbury  to  Great  James  Street.  She 
did  not  even  see  the  stick. 

She  said  scarce  a  word  beyond: 

"I'm  sick  of  Olympia' s  bunch — I  never  want  to  dine  in 
Soho  with  an  inhibition  and  a  varietistic  sex  instinct  again 
— jamais  de  la  vie.  But  one  has  to  play  with  somebody." 
9  117 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Then  he  was  so  cheered  that  he  tapped  the  pavements 
boldly  with  his  stick  and  delicately  touched  her  arm  as 
they  crossed  the  street.  For  she  added: 

"We'll  just  run  in  and  see  them  for  a  little  while,  and 
then  you  can  take  me  out  and  buy  me  a  Rhine  wine  and 
seltzer.  .  .  .  Poor  Mouse,  it  shall  have  its  play!" 

Olympia  Johns'  residence  consisted  of  four  small  rooms. 
When  Istra  opened  the  door,  after  tapping,  the  living- 
room' was  occupied  by  seven  people,  all  interrupting  one 
another  and  drinking  fourpenny  ale;  seven  people  and  a 
fog  of  cigarette  smoke  and  a  tangle  of  papers  and  books 
and  hats.  A  swamp  of  unwashed  dishes  appeared  on  a 
large  table  in  the  room  just  beyond,  divided  off  from  the 
living-room  by  a  burlap  curtain  to  which  were  pinned 
suffrage  buttons  and  medallions.  This  last  he  remembered 
afterward,  thinking  over  the  room,  for  the  medals* 
glittering  points  of  light  relieved  his  eyes  from  the  in 
tolerable  glances  of  the  people  as  he  was  hastily  intro 
duced  to  them.  He  was  afraid  that  he  would  be  dragged 
into  a  discussion,  and  sat  looking  away  from  them  to  the 
medals,  and  to  the  walls,  on  which  were  posters,  showing 
mighty  fists  with  hammers  and  flaming  torches,  or  hog- 
like  men  lolling  on  the  chests  of  workmen,  which  they 
seemed  to  enjoy  more  than  the  workmen.  By  and  by  he 
ventured  to  scan  the  group. 

Carson  Haggerty,  the  American  poet,  was  there.  But 
the  center  of  them  all  was  Olympia  Johns  herself — spinster, 
thirty-four,  as  small  and  active  and  excitedly  energetic 
as  an  ant  trying  to  get  around  a  match.  She  had  much  of 
the  ant's  brownness  and  slimness,  too.  Her  pale  hair  was 
always  falling  from  under  her  fillet  of  worn  black  velvet 
(with  the  dingy  under  side  of  the  velvet  showing  curled 
up  at  the  edges).  A  lock  would  tangle  in  front  of  her  eyes, 
and  she  would  impatiently  shove  it  back  with  a  jab  of 
her  thin  rough  hands,  never  stopping  in  her  machine-gun 
volley  of  words. 

"Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,"  she  would  pour  out.  "Don't  you 

118 


THE   INTELLECTUALS 

see?  We  must  do  something.  I  tell  you  the  conditions 
are  intolerable^  simply  intolerable.  We  must  do  some 
thing." 

The  conditions  were,  it  seemed,  intolerable  in  the 
several  branches  of  education  of  female  infants,  water 
rates  in  Bloomsbury,  the  cutlery  industry,  and  ballad- 
singing. 

And  mostly  she  was  right.  Only  her  Tightness  was  so 
demanding,  so  restless,  that  it  left  Mr.  Wrenn  gasping. 

Olympia  depended  on  Carson  Haggerty  for  most  of  the 
"Yes,  that's  so's,"  though  he  seemed  to  be  trying  to  steal 
glances  at  another  woman,  a  young  woman,  a  lazy  smiling 
pretty  girl  of  twenty,  who,  Istra  told  Mr.  Wrenn,  studied 
Greek  archaeology  at  the  Museum.  No  one  knew  why 
she  studied  it.  She  seemed  peacefully  ignorant  of  every 
thing  but  her  kissable  lips,  and  she  adorably  poked  at 
things  with  lazy  graceful  fingers,  and  talked  the  Little 
Language  to  Carson  Haggerty,  at  which  Olympia  shrugged 
her  shoulders  and  turned  to  the  others. 

There  were  a  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stettinius — she  a  poet; 
he  a  bleached  man,  with  goatish  whiskers  and  a  sancti 
monious  white  neck-cloth,  who  was  Puritanically,  ethically, 
gloomily,  religiously  atheistic.  Items  in  the  room  were 
a  young  man  who  taught  in  Mr.  Jeney's  Select  School 
and  an  Established  Church  mission  worker  from  White- 
chapel,  who  loved  to  be  shocked. 

It  was  Mr.  Wrenn  who  was  really  shocked,  however, 
not  by  the  noise  and  odor;  not  by  the  smoking  of  the 
women;  not  by  the  demand  that  "we"  tear  down  the 
state;  no,  not  by  these  was  Our  Mr.  Wrenn  of  the  Souvenir 
Company  shocked,  but  by  his  own  fascinated  interest  in 
the  frank  talk  of  sex.  He  had  always  had  a  quite  unde 
fined  supposition  that  it  was  wicked  to  talk  of  sex  unless 
one  made  a  joke  of  it. 

Then  came  the  superradicals,  to  confuse  the  radicals 
who  confused  Mr.  Wrenn. 

For  always  there  is  a  greater  rebellion;  and  though  you 

119 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

sell  your  prayer-book  to  buy  Bakunine,  and  esteem  your 
self  revolutionary  to  a  point  of  madness,  you  shall  find 
one  who  calls  you  reactionary.  The  scorners  came  in 
together — Moe  Tchatzsky,  the  syndicalist  and  direct  ac- 
tionist,  and  Jane  Schott,  the  writer  of  impressionistic 
prose — and  they  sat  silently  sneering  on  a  couch. 

Istra  rose,  nodded  at  Mr.  Wrenn,  and  departed,  despite 
Olympia's  hospitable  shrieks  after  them  of  "Oh  stay !  It's 
only  a  little  after  ten.  Do  stay  and  have  something  to 
eat." 

Istra  shut  the  door  resolutely.  The  hall  was  dark. 
It  was  gratefully  quiet.  She  snatched  up  Mr.  Wrenn's 
hand  and  held  it  to  her  breast. 

"Oh,  Mouse  dear,  Fm  so  bored!  I  want  some  real 
things.  They  talk  and  talk  in  there,  and  every  night  they 
settle  all  the  fate  of  all  the  nations,  always  the  same 
way.  I  don't  suppose  there's  ever  been  a  bunch  that 
knew  more  things  incorrectly.  You  hated  them,  didn't 
you?" 

"Why,  I  don't  think  you  ought  to  talk  about  them  so 
severe,"  he  implored,  as  they  started  down-stairs.  "I 
don't  mean  they're  like  you.  They  don't  savvy  like  you 
do.  I  mean  it!  But  I  was  awful  int' rested  in  what  that 
Miss  Johns  said  about  kids  in  school  getting  crushed  into 
a  mold.  Gee!  that's  so;  ain't  it?  Never  thought  of  it 
before.  And  that  Mrs.  Stettinius  talked  about  Yeats  so 
beautiful." 

"Oh,  my  dear,  you  make  my  task  so  much  harder.  I 
want  you  to  be  different.  Can't  you  see  your  cattle-boat 
experience  is  realer  than  any  of  the  things  those  half- 
baked  thinkers  have  done?  I  know.  I'm  half-baked 
myself." 

"Oh,  I've  never  done  nothing." 

"But  you're  ready  to.  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  want 

I  wish  Jock  Seton — the  filibuster  I  met  in  San  Francisco — 
I  wish  he  were  here.  Mouse,  maybe  I  can  make  a  fili 
buster  of  you.  I've  got  to  create  something.  Oh,  those 

120 


THE    INTELLECTUALS 

people!  If  you  just  knew  them!  That  fool  Mary  Stet- 
tinius  is  mad  about  that  Tchatzsky  person,  and  her  hus 
band  invites  him  to  teas.  Stettinius  is  mad  about  Olym- 
pia,  who'll  probably  take  Carson  out  and  marry  him,  and 
he'll  keep  on  hanging  about  the  Greek  girl.  Ungh!" 

"I  don't  know — I  don't  know 

But  as  he  didn't  know  what  he  didn't  know  she  merely 
patted  his  arm  and  said,  soothingly:  "I  won't  criticize 
your  first  specimens  of  radicals  any  more.  They  are 
trying  to  do  something,  anyway."  Then  she  added,  in  an 
irrelevant  tone,  "You're  exactly  as  tall  as  I  am.  Mouse 
dear,  you  ought  to  be  taller." 

They  were  entering  the  drab  stretch  of  Tavistock  Place, 
after  a  silence  as  drab, when  she  exclaimed:  "Mouse,!  am 
so  sick  of  everything.  I  want  to  get  out,  away,  anywhere, 
and  do  something,  anything,  just  so's  it's  different.  Even 
the  country.  I'd  like—  Why  couldn't  we?" 

"Let's  go  out  on  a  picnic  to-morrow,  Istra." 

"A  picnic  picnic?  With  pickles  and  a  pillow  cushion 
and  several  kinds  of  cake  ? . . .  I'm  afraid  the  Bois  Boulogne 
has  spoiled  me  for  that.  .  .  .  Let  me  think." 

She  drooped  down  on  the  steps  of  their  house.  Her 
head  back,  her  supple  strong  throat  arched  with  the 
passion  of  hating  boredom,  she  devoured  the  starlight 
dim  over  the  stale  old  roofs  across  the  way. 

"Stars,"  she  said.  "Out  on  the  moors  they  would 
come  down  by  you.  .  .  .  What  is  your  adventure — your 
formula  for  it?  ...  Let's  see;  you  take  common  roadside 
things  seriously;  you'd  be  dear  and  excited  over  a  Red 
Lion  Inn." 

"Are  there  more  than  one  Red  Li " 

"My  dear  Mouse,  England  is  a  menagerie  of  Red  Lions 
and  White  Lions  and  fuzzy  Green  Unicorns.  .  .  .  Why  not, 
why  not,  why  not!  Let's  walk  to  Aengusmere.  It's  a  fool 
colony  of  artists  and  so  on,  up  in  Suffolk;  but  they  have 
got  some  beautiful  cottages,  and  they're  more  Celt  than 
Dublin.  .  .  .  Start  right  now;  take  a  train  to  Chelmsford, 

121 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

say,  and  tramp  all  night.  Take  a  couple  of  days  or  so  to 
get  there.  Think  of  it!  Tramping  through  dawn,  past 
English  fields.  Think  of  it,  Yankee.  And  not  caring 
what  anybody  in  the  world  thinks.  Gipsies.  Shall  we?" 

"Wh-h-h-h-y "  He  was  sure  she  was  mad.  Tramp 
ing  all  night!  He  couldn't  let  her  do  this. 

She  sprang  up.  She  stared  down  at  him  in  revulsion, 
her  hands  clenched.  Her  voice  was  hostile  as  she  de 
manded: 

"What?     Don't  you  want  to?     With  me?" 

He  was  up  beside  her,  angry,  dignified;   a  man. 

"Look  here.  You  know  I  want  to.  You're  the 

elegantest — I  mean  you're Oh,  you  ought  to  know! 

Can't  you  see  how  I  feel  about  you  ?  Why,  I'd  rather  do 
this  than  anything  I  ever  heard  of  in  my  life.  I  just  don't 
want  to  do  anything  that  would  get  people  to  talking 
about  you." 

"Who  would  know?  Besides,  my  dear  man,  I  don't 
regard  it  as  exactly  wicked  to  walk  decently  along  a 
country  road." 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that.  Oh,  please,  Istra,  don't  look  at  me 
like  that — like  you  hated  me." 

She  calmed  at  once,  drummed  on  his  arm,  sat  down  on 
the  railing,  and  drew  him  to  a  seat  beside  her. 

"Of  course,  Mouse.  It's  silly  to  be  angry.  Yes,  I  do 
believe  you  want  to  take  care  of  me.  But  don't  worry. 
...Come!  Shall  we  go?" 

"But  wouldn't  you  rather  wait  till  to-morrow?" 

"No.  The  whole  thing's  so  mad  that  if  I  wait  till  then 
I'll  never  want  to  do  it.  And  you've  got  to  come,  so  that 
I'll  have  some  one  to  quarrel  with.  ...  I  hate  the  smugness 
of  London,  especially  the  smugness  of  the  anti-smug 
anti-bourgeois  radicals,  so  that  I  have  the  finest  mad 
mood!  Come.  We'll  go." 

Even  this  logical  exposition  had  not  convinced  him, 
but  he  did  not  gainsay  as  they  entered  the  hall  and  Istra 
rang  for  the  landlady.  His  knees  grew  sick  and  old  and 

122 


THE    INTELLECTUALS 

quavery  as  he  heard  the  landlady's  voice  loud  below- 
stairs:  "Now  wot  do  they  want?  It's  eleven  o'clock. 
Aren't  they  ever  done  a-ringing  and  a-ringing?" 

The  landlady,  the  tired  thin  parchment-faced  North 
Countrywoman,  whose  god  was  Respectability  of  Lodg 
ings,  listened  in  a  frightened  way  to  Istra's  blandly  su 
perior  statement:  "Mr.  Wrenn  and  I  have  been  invited 
to  join  an  excursion  out  of  town  that  leaves  to-night. 
We'll  pay  our  rent  and  leave  our  things  here." 

"Going  off  together " 

"My  good  woman,  we  are  going  to  Aengusmere. 
Here's  two  pound.  Don't  allow  any  one  in  my  room. 
And  I  may  send  for  my  things  from  out  of  town.  Be 
ready  to  pack  them  in  my  trunks  and  send  them  to  me. 
Do  you  understand?" 

"Yes,  miss,  but " 

"My  good  woman,  do  you  realize  that  your  'buts'  are 
insulting  ?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  go  to  be  insulting— 

"Then  that's  all Hurry  now,  Mouse!" 

On  the  stairs,  ascending,  she  whispered,  with  the  excite 
ment  not  of  a  tired  woman,  but  of  a  tennis-and-dancing- 
mad  girl:  "We're  off!  Just  take  a  tooth-brush.  Put  on 
an  outing  suit — any  old  thing — and  an  old  cap." 

She  darted  into  her  room. 

Now  Mr.  Wrenn  had,  for  any  old  thing,  as  well  as  for 
afternoon  and  evening  dress,  only  the  sturdy  undistin 
guished  clothes  he  was  wearing,  so  he  put  on  a  cap,  and 
hoped  she  wouldn't  notice.  She  didn't.  She  came 
knocking  in  fifteen  minutes,  trim  in  a  khaki  suit,  with  low 
thick  boots  and  a  jolly  tousled  blue  tam-o'-shanter. 

"Come  on.  There's  a  train  for  Chelmsford  in  half  an 
hour^my  time-table  confided  to  me.  I  feel  like  singing." 


X 

HE   GOES   A-GIPSYING 

rode  out  of  London  in  a  third-class  compart- 
I    ment,  opposite  a  curate  and  two  stodgy  people  who 
were  just  people  and  defied  you  (Istra  cheerfully  explained 
to  Mr.  Wrenn)  to  make  anything  of  them  but  just  people. 

"  Wouldn't  they  stare  if  they  knew  what  idiocy  we're  up 
to!"  she  suggested. 

Mr.  Wrenn  bobbed  his  head  in  entire  agreement.  He 
was  trying,  without  any  slightest  success,  to  make  himself 
believe  that  Mr.  William  Wrenn,  Our  Mr.  Wrenn,  late 
of  the  Souvenir  Company,  was  starting  out  for  a  country 
tramp  at  midnight  with  an  artist  girl. 

The  night  foreman  of  the  station,  a  person  of  bedizen- 
ment  and  pride,  stared  at  them  as  they  alighted  at  Chelms- 
ford  and  glanced  around  like  strangers.  Mr.  Wrenn  stared 
back  defiantly  and  marched  with  Istra  from  the  station, 
through  the  sleeping  town,  past  its  ragged  edges,  into  the 
country. 

They  tramped  on,  a  bit  wearily.  Mr.  Wrenn  was 
beginning  to  wonder  if  they'd  better  go  back  to  Chelms- 
ford.  Mist  was  dripping  and  blind  and  silent  about  them, 
weaving  its  heavy  gray  with  the  night.  Suddenly  Istra 
caught  his  arm  at  the  gate  to  a  farm-yard,  and  cried, 
"Look!" 

"Gee!  ...  Gee!  we're  in  England.     We're  abroad!" 

"Yes— abroad." 

A  paved  courtyard  with  farm  outbuildings  thatched  and 
ancient  was  lit  faintly  by  a  lantern  hung  from  a  post  that 
was  thumbed  to  a  soft  smoothness  by  centuries. 

"4 


HE   GOES   A-GIPSYING 

"That  couldn't  be  America,"  he  exulted.  "Gee!  I'm 
just  gettin'  it!  I'm  so  darn  glad  we  came.  .  .  .  Here's  real 
England.  No  tourists.  It's  what  I've  always  wanted 
— a  country  that's  old.  And  different.  .  .  .  Thatched 
houses! .  .  .  And  pretty  soon  it  '11  be  dawn,  summer  dawn; 
with  you,  with  Istra!  Gee!  It's  the  darndest  adventure." 

"Yes.  .  .  .  Come  on.  Let's  walk  fast  or  we'll  get  sleepy, 
and  then  your  romantic  heroine  will  be  a  grouchy  Interest 
ing  People!  .  .  .  Listen!  There's  a  sleepy  dog  barking,  a 
million  miles  away.  ...  I  feel  like  telling  you  about  myself. 
You  don't  know  me.  Or  do  you?" 

"I  dunno  just  how  you  mean." 

"Oh,  it  shall  have  its  romance!  But  some  time  I'll  tell 
you — perhaps  I  will — how  I'm  not  really  a  clever  person 
at  all,  but  just  a  savage  from  outer  darkness,  who  pre 
tends  to  understand  London  and  Paris  and  Munich,  and 
gets  frightfully  scared  of  them.  .  .  .  Wait!  Listen!  Hear 
the  mist  drip  from  that  tree.  Are  you  nice  and  drowned  ?" 

"Uh — kind  of.  But  I  been  worrying  about  you  being 
soaked." 

"Let  me  see.  Why,  your  sleeve  is  wet  clear  through. 
This  khaki  of  mine  keeps  out  the  water  better.  .  .  .  But 
I  don't  mind  getting  wet.  All  I  mind  is  being  bored.  I'd 
like  to  run  up  this  hill  without  a  thing  on — just  feeling  the 
good  healthy  real  mist  on  my  skin.  But  I'm  afraid  it 
isn't  done." 

Mile  after  mile.  Mostly  she  talked  of  the  boulevards 
and  Pere  Dureon,  of  Debussy  and  artichokes,  in  little 
laughing  sentences  that  sprang  like  fire  out  of  the  dimness 
of  the  mist. 

Dawn  came.  From  a  hilltop  they  made  out  the  roofs 
of  a  town  and  stopped  to  wonder  at  its  silence,  as  though 
through  long  ages  past  no  happy  footstep  had  echoed 
there.  The  fog  lifted.  The  morning  was  new-born  and 
clean,  and  they  fairly  sang  as  they  clattered  up  to  an  old 
coaching  inn  and  demanded  breakfast  of  an  amazed  rustic 
pottering  about  the  inn  yard  in  a  smock.  He  did  not 

125  I 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

know  that  to  a  "thrilling"  Mr.  Wrenn  he — or  perhaps  it 
was  his  smock — was  the  hero  in  an  English  melodrama. 
Nor,  doubtless,  did  the  English  crisp  bacon  and  eggs 
which  a  sleepy  housemaid  prepared  know  that  they  were 
theater  properties.  Why,  they  were  English  eggs,  served 
at  dawn  in  an  English  inn — a  stone-floored  raftered  room 
with  a  starling  hanging  in  a  little  cage  of  withes  outside 
the  latticed  window.  And  there  were  no  trippers  to 
bother  them!  (Mr.  Wrenn  really  used  the  word  "trip 
pers"  in  his  cogitations;  he  had  it  from  Istra.) 

When  he  informed  her  of  this  occult  fact  she  laughed, 
"You  know  mighty  well,  Mouse,  that  you  have  a  sneaking 
wish  there  were  one  Yankee  stranger  here  to  see  our 
glory." 

"I  guess  that's  right." 

"But  maybe  Fm  just  as  bad." 

For  once  their  tones  had  not  been  those  of  teacher  and 
pupil,  but  of  comrades.  They  set  out  from  the  inn 
through  the  brightening  morning  like  lively  boys  on  a 
vacation  tramp. 

The  sun  crept  out,  with  the  warmth  and  the  dust,  and 
Istra's  steps  lagged.  As  they  passed  the  outlying  corner 
of  a  farm  where  a  strawstack  was  secluded  in  a  clump  of 
willows  Istra  smiled  and  sighed:  "I'm  pretty  tired,  dear. 
I'm  going  to  sleep  in  that  straw-stack.  I've  always  wanted 
to  sleep  in  a  straw-stack.  It's  comme  ilfaut  for  vagabonds 
in  the  best  set,  you  know.  And  one  can  burrow.  Excit 
ing,  eh?" 

She  made  a  pillow  of  her  khaki  jacket,  while  he  dug 
down  to  a  dry  place  for  her.  He  found  another  den  on  the 
other  side  of  the  stack. 

It  was  afternoon  when  he  awoke.  He  sprang  up  and 
rushed  around  the  stack.  Istra  was  still  asleep,  curled  in 
a  pathetically  small  childish  heap,  her  tired  face  in  repose 
against  the  brown-yellow  of  her  khaki  jacket.  Her  red 
hair  had  come  down  and  shone  about  her  shoulders. 

She  looked  so  frail  that  he  was  frightened.     Surely,  too, 

126 
t 


HE    GOES    A-GIPSYING 

she'd  be  very  angry  with  him  for  letting  her  come  on  this 
jaunt. 

He  scribbled  on  a  leaf  from  his  address-book — religiously 
carried  for  six  years,  but  containing  only  four  addresses — 
this  note: 

Gone  to  get  stuff  for  bxfst  be  right  back. — W.  W. 

and,  softly  crawling  up  the  straw,  left  the  note  by  her  head. 
He  hastened  to  a  farm-house.  The  farm-wife  was  inclined 
to  be  curious.  O  curious  farm-wife,  you  of  the  cream- 
thick  Essex  speech  and  the  shuffling  feet,  you  were  brave 
indeed  to  face  Bill  Wrenn  the  Great,  with  his  curt  self- 
possession,  for  he  was  on  a  mission  for  Istra,  and  he 
cared  not  for  the  goggling  eyes  of  all  England.  What 
though  he  was  a  bunny-faced  man  with  an  innocuous 
mustache?  Istra  would  be  awakening  hungry.  That 
was  why  he  bullied  you  into  selling  him  a  stew-pan  and  a 
bundle  of  faggots  along  with  the  tea  and  eggs  and  a  bread 
loaf  and  a  jar  of  the  marmalade  your  husband's  farm  had 
been  making  these  two  hundred  years.  And  you  should 
have  had  coffee  for  him,  not  tea,  woman  of  Essex. 

When  he  returned  to  their  outdoor  inn  the  late  after 
noon  glow  lay  along  the  rich  fields  that  sloped  down  from 
their  well-concealed  nook.  Istra  was  still  asleep,  but 
her  cheek  now  lay  wistfully  on  the  crook  of  her  thin  arm. 
He  looked  at  the  auburn-framed  paleness  of  her  face,  its 
lines  of  thought  and  ambition,  unmasked,  unprotected 
by  the  swift  changes  of  expression  which  defended  her 
while  she  was  awake.  He  sobbed.  If  he  could  only  make 
her  happy!  But  he  was  afraid  of  her  moods. 

He  built  a  fire  by  a  brooklet  beyond  the  willows, 
boiled  the  eggs  and  toasted  the  bread  and  made  the  tea, 
with  cream  ready  in  a  jar.  He  remembered  boyhood 
camping  days  in  Parthenon  and  old  camp  lore.  He  re 
turned  to  the  stack  and  called,  "Istra — oh,  Is-tra!" 

She  shook  her  head,  nestled  closer  into  the  straw,  then 

127 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

sat  up,  her  hair  about  her  shoulders.  She  smiled  and 
called  down:  "Good  morning.  Why,  it's  afternoon! 
Did  you  sleep  well,  dear?" 

"Yes.     Did  you?     Gee,  I  hope  you  did!" 

''Never  better  in  my  life.  I'm  so  sleepy  yet.  But 
comfy.  I  needed  a  quiet  sleep  outdoors,  and  it's  so  peace 
ful  here.  Breakfast!  I  roar  for  breakfast!  Where's  the 
nearest  house?" 

"Got  breakfast  all  ready." 

"You're  a  dear!" 

She  went  to  wash  in  the  brook,  and  came  back  with 
eyes  dancing  and  hair  trim,  and  they  laughed  over  break 
fast,  glancing  down  the  slope  of  golden  hazy  fields.  Only 
once  did  Istra  pass  out  of  the  land  of  their  intimacy  into 
some  hinterland  of  analysis — when  she  looked  at  him  as  he 
drank  his  tea  aloud  out  of  the  stew-pan,  and  wondered: 
"Is  this  really  you  here  with  me?  But  you  arent  a 
boulevardier.  I  must  say  I  don't  understand  what  you're 
doing  here  at  all.  .  .  .  Nor  a  caveman,  either.  I  don't  un 
derstand  it.  ...  But  you  shan't  be  worried  by  bad  Istra. 
Let's  see;  we  went  to  grammar-school  together." 

"Yes,  and  we  were  in  college.  Don't  you  remember 
when  I  was  baseball  captain?  You  don't?  Gee,  you 
got  a  bad  memory!" 

At  which  she  smiled  properly,  and  they  were  away  for 
Suffolk  again. 

"  I  suppose  now  it  '11  go  and  rain,"  said  Istra,  viciously, 
at  dusk.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken  for  a  mile. 
Then,  after  another  quarter-mile:  "Please  don't  mind  my 
being  silent.  I'm  sort  of  stiff,  and  my  feet  hurt  most 
unromantically.  You  won't  mind,  will  you?" 

Of  course  he  did  mind,  and  of  course  he  said  he  didn't. 
He  artfully  skirted  the  field  of  conversation  by  very 
West  Sixteenth  Street  observations  on  a  town  through 
which  they  passed,  while  she  merely  smiled  wearily,  and 
at  best  remarked  "Yes,  that's  so,"  whether  it  was  so  or  not.- 

128 


HE    GOES    A-GIPSYING 

He  was  reflecting:  "Istra's  terrible  tired.  I  ought  to 
take  care  of  her."  He  stopped  at  the  wood-pillared 
entrance  of  a  temperance  inn  and  commanded:  "Come! 
We'll  have  something  to  eat  here."  To  the  astonishment 
of  both  of  them,  she  meekly  obeyed  with  "If  you  wish." 

It  cannot  be  truthfully  said  that  Mr.  Wrenn  proved 
himself  a  person  of  savoir  faire  in  choosing  a  temperance 
hotel  for  their  dinner.  Istra  didn't  seem  so  much  to  mind 
the  fact  that  the  table-cloth  was  coarse  and  the  water- 
glasses  thick,  and  that  everywhere  the  elbow  ran  into  a 
superfluity  of  greasy  pepper  and  salt  castors.  But  when  she 
raised  her  head  wearily  to  peer  around  the  room  she 
started,  glared  at  Mr.  Wrenn,  and  accused:  "Are  you  by 
any  chance  aware  of  the  fact  that  this  place  is  crowded 
with  tourists  ?  There  are  two  family  parties  from  Daven 
port  or  Omaha;  I  know  they  are!" 

"Oh,  they  ain't  such  bad-looking  people,"  protested 
Mr.  Wrenn.  .  .  .  Just  because  he  had  induced  her  to  stop 
for  dinner  the  poor  man  thought  his  masculine  superiority 
had  been  recognized. 

"Oh,  they're  terrible!  Can't  you  see  it?  Oh,  you're 
hopeless." 

"Why,  that  big  guy — that  big  man  with  the  rimless 
spectacles  looks  like  he  might  be  a  good  civil  engineer,  and 
I  think  that  lady  opposite  him ' 

"They're  Americans." 

"So're  we!" 

"I'm  not." 

"I  thought— why " 

"Of  course  I  was  born  there,  but " 

"Well,  just  the  same,  I  think  they're  nice  people." 

"Now  see  here.  Must  I  argue  with  you?  Can  I  have 
no  peace,  tired  as  I  am?  Those  trippers  are  speaking  of 
'quaint  English  flavor.'  Can  you  want  anything  more 
than  that  to  damn  them?  And  they've  been  touring  by 
motor — seeing  every  inn  on  the  road." 

"Maybe  it's  fun  for " 

129 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Now  don't  argue  with  me.  I  know  what  I'm  talking 
about.  Why  do  I  have  to  explain  everything?  They're 
hopeless!" 

Mr.  Wrenn  felt  a  good  wholesome  desire  to  spank  her, 
but  he  said,  most  politely:  "You're  awful  tired.  Don't 
you  want  to  stay  here  to-night?  Or  maybe  some  other 
hotel;  and  I'll  stay  here." 

"No.  Don't  want  to  stay  any  place.  Want  to  get 
away  from  myself,"  she  said,  exactly  like  a  naughty 
child. 

So  they  tramped  on  again. 

Darkness  was  near.  They  had  plunged  into  a  country 
which  in  the  night  seemed  to  be  a  stretch  of  desolate 
moorlands.  As  they  were  silently  plodding  up  a  hill  the 
rain  came.  It  came  with  a  roar,  a  pitiless  drenching 
against  which  they  fought  uselessly,  soaking  them,  slap 
ping  their  faces,  blinding  their  eyes.  He  caught  her 
arm  and  dragged  her  ahead.  She  wTould  be  furious  with 
him  because  it  rained,  of  course,  but  this  was  no  time  to 
think  of  that;  he  had  to  get  her  to  a  dry  place. 

Istra  laughed:  "Oh,  isn't  this  great!  We're  real 
vagabonds  now." 

"Why!  Doesn't  that  khaki  soak  through?  Aren't  you 
wet?" 

"To  the  skin!"  she  shouted,  gleefully.  "And  I  don't 
care!  We're  doing  something.  Poor  dear,  is  it  worried? 
I'll  race  you  to  the  top  of  the  hill." 

The  dark  bulk  of  a  building  struck  their  sight  at  the 
top,  and  they  ran  to  it.  Just  now  Mr.  Wrenn  was  ready 
to  devour  alive  any  irate  householder  who  might  try  to 
turn  them  out.  He  found  the  building  to  be  a  ruined 
stable — the  door  off  the  hinges,  the  desolate  thatch  falling 
in.  He  struck  a  match  and,  holding  it  up,  standing 
straight,  the  master,  all  unconscious  for  once  in  his 
deprecating  life  of  the  Wrennishness  of  Mr.  Wrenn,  he 
discovered  that  the  thatch  above  the  horse-manger  was 
fairly  waterproof. 

130 


HE    GOES    A-GIPSYING 

"Come  on!  Up  on  the  edge  of  the  manger,  Istra,"  he 
ordered. 

"This  is  a  perfectly  good  place  for  a  murder,"  she 
grinned,  as  they  sat  swinging  their  legs. 

He  could  fancy  her  grinning.  He  was  sure  about  it, 
and  well  content. 

"Have  I  been  so  very  grouchy,  Mouse?  Don't  you 
want  to  murder  me  ?  I'll  try  to  find  you  a  long  pin." 

"Nope;  I  don't  think  so,  much.  I  guess  we  can  get 
along  without  it  this  time." 

"Oh  dear,  dear!  This  is  very  dreadful.  You're  so  used 
to  me  now  that  you  aren't  even  scared  of  me  any  more." 

"Gee!  I  guess  I'll  be  scared  of  you  all  right  as  soon 
as  I  get  you  into  a  dry  place,  but  I  ain't  got  time  now. 
Sitting  on  a  manger!  Ain't  this  the  funniest  place!  .  .  . 
Now  I  must  beat  it  out  and  find  a  house.  There  ought  to 
be  one  somewheres  near  here." 

"And  leave  me  here  in  the  darknesses  and  wetnesses? 
Not  a  chance.  The  rain  '11  soon  be  over,  anyway.  Really, 
I  don't  mind  a  bit.  I  think  it's  rather  fun." 

Her  voice  was  natural  again,  natural  and  companion 
able  and  brave.  She  laughed  as  she  stroked  her  wet 
shoulder  and  held  his  hand,  sitting  quietly  and  bidding 
him  listen  to  the  soft  forlorn  sound  of  the  rain  on  the 
thatch. 

But  the  rain  was  not  soon  over,  and  their  dangling 
position  was  very  much  like  riding  a  rail. 

"I'm  so  uncomfortable!"  fretted  Istra. 

"See  here,  Istra,  please,  I  think  I'd  better  go  see  if  I 
can't  find  a  house  for  you  to  get  dry  in." 

"I  feel  too  wretched  to  go  any  place.  Too  wretched  to 
move." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  make  a  fire  here.  There  ain't  much 
danger." 

"The  place  will  catch  fire,"  she  began,  querulously. 

But  he  interrupted  her.  "Oh,  let  the  darn  place  catch 
fire!  I'm  going  to  make  a  fire,  I  tell  you!" 

131 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"I  don't  want  to  move.  It'll  just  be  another  kind  of 
discomfort,  that's  all.  Why  couldn't  you  try  and  take  a 
little  bit  of  care  of  me,  anyway?" 

"Oh,  hon-ey!"  he  wailed,  in  youthful  bewilderment. 
"I  did  try  to  get  you  to  stay  at  that  hotel  in  town  and  get 
some  rest." 

"Well,  you  ought  to  have  made  me.  Don't  you  realize 
that  I  took  you  along  to  take  care  of  me  ?" 

"Uh " 

"Now  don't  argue  about  it.  I  can't  stand  argument 
all  the  time." 

He  thought  instantly  of  Lee  Theresa  Zapp  quarreling 
with  her  mother,  but  he  said  nothing.  He  gathered  the 
driest  bits  of  thatch  and  wood  he  could  find  in  the  litter 
on  the  stable  floor  and  kindled  a  fire,  while  she  sat  sullenly 
glaring  at  him,  her  face  wrinkled  and  tired  in  the  wan 
firelight.  When  the  blaze  was  going  steadily,  a  compact 
and  safe  little  fire,  he  spread  his  coat  as  a  seat  for  her, 
and  called,  cheerily,  "Come  on  now,  honey;  here's  a 
regular  home  and  hearthstone  for  you." 

She  slipped  down  from  the  manger  edge  and  stood  in 
front  of  him,  looking  into  his  eyes — which  were  level  with 
her  own. 

"  You  are  good  to  me,"  she  half  whispered,  and  smoothed 
his  cheek,  then  slipped  down  on  the  outspread  coat,  and 
murmured,  "Come;  sit  here  by  me,  and  we'll  both  get 
warm." 

All  night  the  rain  dribbled,  but  no  one  came  to  drive 
them  away  from  the  fire,  and  they  dozed  side  by  side,  their 
hands  close  and  their  garments  steaming.  Istra  fell 
asleep,  and  her  head  drooped  on  his  shoulder.  He  straight 
ened  to  bear  its  weight,  though  his  back  twinged  with 
stiffness,  and  there  he  sat  unmoving,  through  an  hour  of 
pain  and  happiness  and  confused  meditation,  studying  the 
curious  background — the  dark  roof  of  broken  thatch,  the 
age-corroded  walls,  the  littered  earthen  floor.  His  hand 
pressed  lightly  the  clammy  smoothness  of  the  wet  khaki 

132 


HE    GOES    A-GIPSYING 

of  her  shoulder;  his  wet  sleeve  stuck  to  his  arm,  and  he 
wanted  to  pull  it  free.  His  eyes  stung.  But  he  sat  tight, 
while  his  mind  ran  round  in  circles,  considering  that  he 
loved  Istra,  and  that  he  would  not  be  entirely  sorry  when 
he  was  no  longer  the  slave  to  her  moods;  that  this  ad 
venture  was  the  strangest  and  most  romantic,  also  the  most 
idiotic  and  useless,  in  history. 

Toward  dawn  she  stirred,  and,  slipping  stiffly  from  his 
position,  he  moved  her  so  that  her  back,  which  was  still 
wet,  faced  the  fire.  He  built  up  the  fire  again,  and  sat 
brooding  beside  her,  dozing  and  starting  awake,  till 
morning.  Then  his  head  bobbed,  and  he  was  dimly  awake 
again,  to  find  her  sitting  up  straight,  looking  at  him  in 
amazement. 

"It  simply  can't  be,  that's  all.  .  .  .  Did  you  curl  me  up? 
I'm  nice  and  dry  all  over  now.  It  was  very  good  of  you. 
You've  been  a  most  commendable  person.  .  .  .  But  I  think 
we'll  take  a  train  for  the  rest  of  our  pilgrimage.  It 
hasn't  been  entirely  successful,  I'm  afraid." 

"Perhaps  we'd  better." 

For  a  moment  he  hated  her,  with  her  smooth  politeness, 
after  a  night  when  she  had  been  unbearable  and  human 
by  turns.  He  hated  her  bedraggled  hair  and  tired  face. 
Then  he  could  have  wept,  so  deeply  did  he  desire  to  pull  her 
head  down  on  his  shoulder  and  smooth  the  wrinkles  of 
weariness  out  of  her  dear  face,  the  dearer  because  they  had 
endured  the  weariness  together.  But  he  said,  "Well, 
let's  try  to  get  some  breakfast  first,  Istra." 

With  their  garments  wrinkled  from  rain,  half  asleep  and 
rather  cross,  they  arrived  at  the  esthetic  but  respectable 
colony  of  Aengusmere  by  the  noon  train. 
10 


XI 

HE   BUYS   AN   ORANGE  TIE 

r  I  "'HE  Aengusmere  Caravanserai  is  so  unyieldingly  cheer- 
JL  ful  and  artistic  that  it  makes  the  ordinary  person 
long  for  a  dingy  old-fashioned  room  in  which  he  can  play 
solitaire  and  chew  gum  without  being  rebuked  with 
exasperating  patience  by  the  wall  stencils  and  clever 
etchings  and  polished  brasses.  It  is  adjectiferous.  The 
common  room  (which  is  uncommon  for  hotel  parlor)  is 
all  in  superlatives  and  chintzes. 

Istra  had  gone  up  to  her  room  to  sleep,  bidding  Mr. 
Wrenn  do  likewise  and  avoid  the  wrong  bunch  at  the 
Caravanserai;  for  besides  the  wrong  bunch  of  Interesting 
People  there  were,  she  explained,  a  right  bunch,  of  working 
artists.  But  he  wanted  to  get  some  new  clothes,  to  re 
place  his  rain-wrinkled  ready-mades.  He  was  tottering 
through  the  common  room,  wondering  whether  he  could 
find  a  clothing-shop  in  Aengusmere,  when  a  shrill  gurgle 
from  a  wing-chair  by  the  rough-brick  fireplace  halted  him. 

"Oh-h-h-h,  Mister  Wrenn;    Mr.  Wrenn!" 

There  sat  Mrs.  Stettinius,  the  poet-lady  of  Olympiads 
rooms  on  Great  James  Street. 

"Oh-h-h-h,  Mr.  Wrenn,  you  "bad  man,  do  come  sit  down 
and  tell  me  all  about  your  wonderful  trek  with  Istra  Nash. 
I  just  met  dear  Istra  in  the  upper  hall.  Poor  dear,  she  was 
so  crumpled,  but  her  hair  was  like  a  sunset  over  mountain 
peaks — you  know,  as  Yeats  says: 

"A  stormy  sunset  were  her  lips, 
A  stormy  sunset  on  doomed  ships, 
134 


HE    BUYS   AN   ORANGE   TIE 

only  of  course  this  was  her  hair  and  not  her  lips — and  she 
told  me  that  you  had  tramped  all  the  way  from  London. 
I've  never  heard  of  anything  so  romantic — or  no,  I  won't 
say  'romantic' — I  do  agree  with  dear  Olympia — isn't  she  a 
magnificent  woman — so  fearless  and  progressive — didn't 
you  adore  meeting  her  ? — she  is  our  modern  Joan  of  Arc — 
such  a  noble  figure — I  do  agree  with  her  that  romantic 
love  is  passe,  that  we  have  entered  the  era  of  glorious 
companionship  that  regards  varietism  as  exactly  as  ro 
mantic  as  monogamy.  But — but — where  was  I  ? — I  think 
your  gipsying  down  from  London  was  most  exciting.  Now 
do  tell  us  all  about  it,  Mr.  Wrenn.  First,  I  want  you  to 
meet  Miss  Saxonby  and  Mr.  Gutch  and  dear  Yilyena 
Dourschetsky  and  Mr.  Howard  Bancock  Binch — of  course 
you  know  his  poetry." 

And  then  she  drew  a  breath  and  flopped  back  into  the 
wing-chair's  muffling  depths. 

During  all  this  Mr.  Wrenn  had  stood,  frightened  and 
unprotected  and  rain-wrinkled,  before  the  gathering  by 
the  fireless  fireplace,  wondering  how  Mrs.  Stettinius  could 
get  her  nose  so  blue  and  yet  so  powdery.  Despite  her  en 
couragement  he  gave  no  fuller  account  of  the  "gipsying" 
than,  "Why — uh — we  just  tramped  down,"  till  Russian- 
Jewish  Yilyena  rolled  her  ebony  eyes  at  him  and  insisted, 
"  Yez,  you  mus'  tale  us  about  it." 

Now,  Yilyena  had  a  pretty  neck,  colored  like  a  cigar  of 
mild  flavor,  and  a  trick  of  smiling.  She  was  accustomed 
to  having  men  obey  her.  Mr.  Wrenn  stammered: 

"Why — uh — we  just  walked,  and  we  got  caught  in  the 
rain.  Say,  Miss  Nash  was  a  wonder.  She  never  peeped 
when  she  got  soaked  through — she  just  laughed  and  beat 
it  like  everything.  And  we  saw  a  lot  of  quaint  English 
places  along  the  road — got  away  from  all  them  tourists — 
trippers — you  know." 

A  perfectly  strange  person,  a  heavy  old  man  with  horn 
spectacles  and  a  soft  shirt,  who  had  joined  the  group  un 
bidden,  cleared  his  throat  and  interrupted: 

135 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Is  it  not  a  strange  paradox  that  in  traveling,  the  most 
observant  of  all  pursuits,  one  should  have  to  encounter 
the  eternal  bourgeoisie  I" 

From  the  Cockney  Greek  chorus  about  the  unlighted 
fire: 

"Yes!" 

"Everywhere." 

"Uh —  "  began  Mr.  Gutch.  He  apparently  had  some 
thing  to  say.  But  the  chorus  went  on: 

"And  just  as  swelteringly  monogamic  in  Port  Said  as  in 
Brum." 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

"Mr.  Wr-r-renn,"  thrilled  Mrs.  Stettinius,  the  lady  poet, 
"didn't  you  notice  that  they  were  perfectly  oblivious  of  all 
economic  movements;  that  their  observations  never  post 
dated  ruins?" 

"I  guess  they  wanted  to  make  sure  they  were  admirm* 
the  right  things,"  ventured  Mr.  Wrenn,  with  secret 
terror. 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  came  so  approvingly  from  the  Greek 
chorus  that  the  personal  pupil  of  Mittyford,  Ph.D.,  made 
his  first  epigram: 

"It  isn't  so  much  what  you  like  as  what  you  don't  like 
that  shows  if  you're  wise." 

"Yes,"  they  gurgled;  and  Mr.  Wrenn,  much  pleased 
with  himself,  smiled  au  prince  upon  his  new  friends. 

Mrs.  Stettinius  was  getting  into  her  stride  for  a  few  re 
marks  upon  the  poetry  of  industrialism  when  Mr.  Gutch, 
who  had  been  "Uh — "ing  for  some  moments,  trying  to 
get  in  his  remark,  winked  with  sly  rudeness  at  Miss 
Saxonby  and  observed : 

"I  fancy  romance  isn't  quite  dead  yet,  y'  know.  Our 
friends  here  seem  to  have  had  quite  a  ro-mantic  little 
journey."  Then  he  winked  again. 

"Say,  what  do  you  mean?"  demanded  Bill  Wrenn,  hot- 
eyed,  fists  clenched,  but  very  quiet. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  blaming  you  and  Miss  Nash — quite  the 

136 


HE    BUYS    AN   ORANGE    TIE 

reverse!"  tittered  the  Gutch  person,  wagging  his  head 
sagely. 

Then  Bill  Wrenn,  with  his  fist  at  Mr.  Gutch's  nose, 
spoke  his  mind: 

"Say,  you  white-faced  unhealthy  dirty-minded  lump, 
I  ain't  much  of  a  fighter,  but  I'm  going  to  muss  you  up  so's 
you  can't  find  your  ears  if  you  don't  apologize  for  those 
insinuations." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wrenn " 


"He  didn't  mean- 
"I  didn't  mean — 


"He  was  just  spoofing " 

"I  was  just  spoofing " 

Bill  Wrenn,  watching  the  dramatization  of  himself  as 
hero,  was  enjoying  the  drama.  "You  apologize,  then?" 

"Why  certainly,  Mr.  Wrenn.     Let  me  explain " 

"Oh,  don't  explain,"  snortled  Miss  Saxonby. 

"Yes!"  from  Mr.  Bancock  Binch,  "explanations  are  so 
conventional,  old  chap." 

Do  you  see  them  ? — Mr.  Wrenn,  self-conscious  and  ready 
to  turn  into  a  blind  belligerent  Bill  Wrenn  at  the  first 
disrespect;  the  talkers  sitting  about  and  assassinating  all 
the  princes  and  proprieties  and,  poor  things,  taking  Mr. 
Wrenn  quite  seriously  because  he  had  uncovered  the  great 
truth  that  the  important  thing  in  sight-seeing  is  not  to  see 
sights.  He  was  most  unhappy,  Mr.  Wrenn  was,  and 
wanted  to  be  away  from  there.  He  darted  as  from  a 
spring  when  he  heard  Istra's  voice,  from  the  edge  of  the 
group,  calling,  "Come  here  a  sec',  Billy." 

She  was  standing  with  a  chair-back  for  support,  tired 
but  smiling. 

"I  can't  get  to  sleep  yet.  Don't  you  want  me  to  show 
you  some  of  the  buildings  here?" 

"Chyesf 

"If  Mrs.  Stettinius  can  spare  you!" 

This  by  way  of  remarking  on  the  fact  that  the  female 
poet  was  staring  volubly. 

137 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"G-g-g-g-g-g "  said  Mrs.  Stettinius,  which  seemed 

to  imply  perfect  consent. 

Istra  took  him  to  the  belvedere  on  a  little  slope  over 
looking  the  lawns  of  Aengusmere,  scattered  with  low 
bungalows  and  rose-gardens. 

"It  is  beautiful,  isn't  it?  Perhaps  one  could  be  happy 
here — if  one  could  kill  all  the  people  except  the  architect," 
she  mused. 

"Oh,  it  is,"  he  glowed. 

Standing  there  beside  her,  happiness  enveloping  them, 
looking  across  the  marvelous  sward,  Bill  Wrenn  was  at  the 
climax  of  his  comedy  of  triumph.  Admitted  to  a  world  of 
lawns  and  bungalows  and  big  studio  windows,  standing  in 
a  belvedere  beside  Istra  Nash  as  her  friend 

"Mouse  dear,"  she  said,  hesitatingly,  "the  reason  why 
I  wanted  to  have  you  come  out  here,  why  I  couldn't  sleep, 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  how  ashamed  I  am  for  having  been 
peevish,  being  petulant,  last  night.  Fm  so  sorry,  because 
you  were  very  patient  with  me,  you  were  very  good  to  me. 
I  don't  want  you  to  think  of  me  just  as  a  crochety  woman 
who  didn't  appreciate  you.  You  are  very  kind,  and  when 
I  hear  that  you're  married  to  some  nice  girl  I'll  be  as 
happy  as  can  be." 

"Oh,  Istra,"  he  cried,  grasping  her  arm,  "I  don't  want 
any  girl  in  the  world — I  mean — oh,  I  just  want  to  be  let 
go  'round  with  you  when  you'll  let  me " 

"No,  no,  dear.  You  must  have  seen  last  night;  that's 
impossible.  Please  don't  argue  about  it  now;  I'm  too 

tired.     I  just  wanted  to  tell  you  I  appreciated And 

when  you  get  back  to  America  you  won't  be  any  the 
worse  for  playing  around  with  poor  Istra  because  she 
told  you  about  different  things  from  what  you've  played 
with,  about  rearing  children  as  individuals  and  painting 
in  tempera  and  all  those  things?  And — and  I  don't  want 
you  to  get  too  fond  of  me,  because  we're — different.  .  .  . 
But  we  have  had  an  adventure,  even  if  it  was  a  little 
moist."  She  paused;  then,  cheerily:  "Well,  I'm  going 

138 


HE    BUYS   AN   ORANGE   TIE 

to  beat  it  back  and  try  to  sleep  again.  Good-by,  Mouse 
dear.  No,  don't  come  back  to  the  Cara-advanced-serai. 
Play  around  and  see  the  animiles.  G'-by." 

He  watched  her  straight  swaying  figure  swing  across 
the  lawn  and  up  the  steps  of  the  half-timbered  inn. 
He  watched  her  enter  the  door  before  he  hastened 
to  the  shops  which  clustered  about  the  railway -sta 
tion,  outside  of  the  poetic  preserves  of  the  colony 
proper. 

He  noticed,  as  he  went,  that  the  men  crossing  the  green 
were  mostly  clad  in  Norfolk  jackets  and  knickers,  so  he 
purchased  the  first  pair  of  unrespectable  un-ankle-con- 
cealing  trousers  he  had  owned  since  small  boyhood,  and  a 
jacket  of  rough  serge,  with  a  gaudy  buckle  on  the  belt. 
Also,  he  actually  dared  an  orange  tie! 

He  wanted  something  for  Istra  at  dinner — "a  s'prise," 
he  whispered  under  his  breath,  with  fond  babying.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  entered  a  florist's  shop.  .  .  . 
Normally,  you  know,  the  poor  of  the  city  cannot  afford 
flowers  till  they  are  dead,  and  then  for  but  one  day.  .  .  . 
He  came  out  with  a  bunch  of  orchids,  and  remembered 
the  days  when  he  had  envied  the  people  he  had  seen  in 
florists'  shops  actually  buying  flowers.  When  he  was 
almost  at  the  Caravanserai  he  wanted  to  go  back  and 
change  the  orchids  for  simpler  flowers,  roses  or  carnations, 
but  he  got  himself  not  to. 

The  linen  and  glassware  and  silver  of  the  Caravanserai 
were  almost  as  coarse  as  those  of  a  temperance  hotel,  for 
all  the  raftered  ceiling  and  the  etchings  in  the  dining- 
room.  Hunting  up  the  stewardess  of  the  inn,  a  bustling 
young  woman  who  was  reading  Keats  energetically  at  an 
office-like  desk,  Mr.  Wrenn  begged:  "I  wonder  could  I 
get  some  special  cups  and  plates  and  stuff  for  high  tea  to 
night.  I  got  a  kind  of  party " 

"How  many?"  The  stewardess  issued  the  words  as 
though  he  had  put  a  penny  in  the  slot. 

139 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Just  two.  Kind  of  a  birthday  party."  Mendacious 
Mr.  Wrenn! 

"Certainly.  Of  course  there's  a  small  extra  charge. 
I  have  a  Royal  Satsuma  tea-service — practically  Royal 
Satsuma,  at  least — and  some  special  Limoges.'" 

"I  think  Royal  Sats'ma  would  be  nice.  And  some 
silverware  ?" 

"Surely." 

"And  could  we  get  some  special  stuff  to  eat?" 

"What  would  you  like?" 

"Why " 

Mendacious  Mr.  Wrenn!  as  we  have  commented.  He 
put  his  head  on  one  side,  rubbed  his  chin  with  nice 
consideration,  and  condescended,  "What  would  you 
suggest?" 

"For  a  party  high  tea?  Why,  perhaps  consomme  and 
omelet  Bergerac  and  a  salad  and  a  sweet  and  cafe  diable. 
We  have  a  chef  who  does  French  eggs  rather  remarkably. 
That  would  be  simple,  but " 

"Yes,  that  would  be  very  good,"  gravely  granted  the 
patron  of  cuisine.  "At  six;  for  two." 

As  he  walked  away  he  grinned  within.  "Gee!  I  talked 
to  that  omelet  Berg'rac  like  I'd  known  it  all  my  life!" 

Other  s'prises  for  Istra's  party  he  sought.  Let's  see; 
suppose  it  really  were  her  birthday,  wouldn't  she  like  to 
have  a  letter  from  some  important  guy?  he  queried  of  him 
self.  He'd  write  her  a  make-b'lieve  letter  from  a  duke. 
Which  he  did.  Purchasing  a  stamp,  he  humped  over  a 
desk  in  the  common  room  and  with  infinite  pains  he  inked 
the  stamp  in  imitation  of  a  postmark  and  addressed  the 
letter  to  "Lady  Istra  Nash,  Mouse  Castle,  Suffolk." 

Some  one  sat  down  at  the  desk  opposite  him,  and  he 
jealously  carried  the  task  up-stairs  to  his  room.  He 
rang  for  pen  and  ink  as  regally  as  though  he  had  never  sat 
at  the  wrong  end  of  a  buzzer.  After  half  an  hour  of 
trying  to  visualize  a  duke  writing  a  letter  he  produced 
this: 

140 


HE    BUYS   AN   ORANGE   TIE 

LADY  ISTRA  NASH, 

Mouse  Castle. 

DEAR  MADAM, — We  hear  from  our  friend  Sir  William  Wrenn 
that  some  folks  are  saying  that  to-day  is  not  your  birthday  & 
want  to  stop  your  celebration,  so  if  you  should  need  somebody 
to  make  them  believe  to-day  is  your  birthday  we  have  sent 
our  secretary,  Sir  Percival  Montague.  Sir  William  Wrenn  will 
hide  him  behind  his  chair,  and  if  they  bother  you  just  call  for 
Sir  Percival  and  he  will  tell  them.  Permit  us,  dear  Lady  Nash, 
to  wish  you  all  the  greetings  of  the  season,  and  in  close  we  beg 
to  remain,  as  ever,  Yours  sincerely, 

DUKE  VERE  DE  VERE. 

He  was  very  tired.  When  he  lay  down  for  a  minute, 
with  a  pillow  tucked  over  his  head,  he  was  almost  asleep  in 
ten  seconds.  But  he  sprang  up,  washed  his  prickly  eyes 
with  cold  water,  and  began  to  dress.  He  was  shy  of  the 
knickers  and  golf-stockings,  but  it  was  the  orange  tie  that 
gave  him  real  alarm.  He  dared  it,  though,  and  went  down 
stairs  to  make  sure  they  were  setting  the  table  with  glory 
befitting  the  party. 

As  he  went  through  the  common  room  he  watched  the 
three  or  four  groups  scattered  through  it.  They  seemed 
to  take  his  clothes  as  a  matter  of  course.  He  was  glad. 
He  wanted  so  much  to  be  a  credit  to  Istra. 

Returning  from  the  dining-room  to  the  common  room, 
he  passed  a  group  standing  in  a  window  recess  and  looking 
away  from  him.  He  overheard: 

"Who  is  the  remarkable  new  person  with  the  orange  tie 
and  the  rococo  buckle  on  his  jacket  belt — the  one  that 
just  went  through?  Did  you  ever  see  anything  so  funny! 
His  collar  didn't  come  within  an  inch  and  a  half  of  fitting 
his  neck.  He  must  be  a  poet.  I  wonder  if  his  verses  are 
as  jerry-built  as  his  garments!" 

Mr.  Wrenn  stopped. 

Another  voice: 

"And  the  beautiful  lack  of  development  of  his  legs! 
It's  like  the  good  old  cycling  days,  when  every  draper's 

141 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

assistant  went  bank-holidaying.  ...  I  don't  know  him,  but 
I  suppose  he's  some  tuppeny-ha'p'ny  illustrator." 

"Or  perhaps  he  has  convictions  about  fried  bananas, 
and  dines  on  a  bean  saute.  O  Aengusmere!  Shades  of 
Aengus!" 

"Not  at  all.  When  they  look  as  gentle  as  he  they 
always  hate  the  capitalists  as  a  militant  hates  a  cabinet 
minister.  He  probably  dines  on  the  left  ear  of  a  South- 
African  millionaire  every  evening  before  exercise  at  the 
barricades.  ...  I  say,  look  over  there;  there's  a  real 
artist  going  across  the  green.  You  can  tell  he's  a  real 
artist  because  he's  dressed  like  a  navvy  and " 

Mr.  Wrenn  was  walking  away,  across  the  common  room, 
quite  sure  that  every  one  was  eying  him  with  amusement. 
And  it  was  too  late  to  change  his  clothes.  It  was  six 
already. 

He  stuck  out  his  jaw,  and  remembered  that  he  had 
planned  to  hide  the  "letter  from  the  duke"  in  Istra's 
napkin  that  it  might  be  the  greater  surprise.  He  sat 
down  at  their  table.  He  tucked  the  letter  into  the  napkin 
folds.  He  moved  the  vase  of  orchids  nearer  the  center  of 
the  table,  and  the  table  nearer  the  open  window  giving 
on  the  green.  He  rebuked  himself  for  not  being  able  to 
think  of  something  else  to  change.  He  forgot  his  clothes, 
and  was  happy. 

At  six-fifteen  he  summoned  a  boy  and  sent  him  up  with 
a  message  that  Mr.  Wrenn  was  waiting  and  high  tea 
ready. 

The  boy  came  back  muttering,  "Miss  Nash  left  this 
note  for  you,  sir,  the  stewardess  says." 

Mr.  Wrenn  opened  the  green-and-white  Caravanserai 
letter  excitedly.  Perhaps  Istra,  too,  was  dressing  for  the 
party!  He  loved  all  s' prises  just  then.  He  read: 

Mouse  dear,  I'm  sorrier  than  I  can  tell  you,  but  you  know  I 
warned  you  that  bad  Istra  was  a  creature  of  moods,  and  just 
now  my  mood  orders  me  to  beat  it  for  Paris,  which  I'm  doing, 

142 


HE    BUYS    AN   ORANGE   TIE 

on  the  5.17  train.  I  won't  say  good-by — I  hate  good-bys* 
they're  so  stupid,  don't  you  think?  Write  me  some  time, 
better  make  it  care  Amer.  Express  Co.,  Paris,  because  I  don't 
know  yet  just  where  I'll  be.  And  please  don't  look  me  up  in 
Paris,  because  it's  always  better  to  end  up  an  affair  without 
explanations,  don't  you  think?  You  have  been  wonderfully 
kind  to  me,  and  I'll  send  you  some  good  thought-forms,  shall  I  ? 

1.  N. 

He  walked  to  the  office  of  the  Caravanserai,  blindly, 
quietly.  He  paid  his  bill,  and  found  that  he  had  only 
fifty  dollars  left.  He  could  not  get  himself  to  eat  the 
waiting  high  tea.  There  was  a  seven-fourteen  train  for 
London.  He  took  it.  Meantime  he  wrote  out  a  cable 
to  his  New  York  bank  for  a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars. 
To  keep  from  thinking  in  the  train  he  talked  gravely  and 
gently  to  an  old  man  about  the  brave  days  of  England, 
when  men  threw  quoits.  He  kept  thinking  over  and  over, 
to  the  tune  set  by  the  rattling  of  the  train  trucks :  "  Friends 
...  I  got  to  make  friends,  now  I  know  what  they  are.  .  .  . 
Funny  some  guys  don't  make  friends.  Mustn't  forget. 
Got  to  make  lots  of  'em  in  New  York.  Learn  how  to 
make  'em." 

He  arrived  at  his  room  on  Tavistock  Place  about  eleven, 
and  tried  to  think  for  the  rest  of  the  night  of  how  deeply 
he  was  missing  Morton  of  the  cattle-boat  now  that — now 
that  he  had  no  friend  in  all  the  hostile  world. 

In  a  London  A.  B.  C.  restaurant  Mr.  Wrenn  was  talking 
to  an  American  who  had  a  clipped  mustache,  brisk  man 
ners,  a  Knight-of-Pythias  pin,  and  a  mind  for  duck- 
shooting,  hardware-selling,  and  cigars. 

"No  more  England  for  mine,"  the  American  snapped, 
good-humoredly.  "I'm  going  to  get  out  of  this  foggy 
hole  and  get  back  to  God's  country  just  as  soon  as  I  can. 
I  want  to  find  out  what's  doing  at  the  store,  and  I  want 
to  sit  down  to  a  plate  of  flapjacks.  I'm  good  and  plenty 
sick  of  tea  and  marmalade.  Why,  I  wouldn't  take  this 

143 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

fool  country  for  a  gift.  No,  sir!  Me  for  God's  country — 
Sleepy  Eye,  Brown  County,  Minnesota.  You  bet!" 

"You  don't  like  England  much,  then?"  Mr.  Wrenn 
carefully  reasoned. 

"Like  it?  Like  this  damp  crowded  hole,  where  they 

can't  talk  English,  and  have  a  fool  coinage Say, 

that's  a  great  system,  that  metric  system  they've  got  over 
in  France,  but  here — why,  they  don't  know  whether 
Kansas  City  is  in  Kansas  or  Missouri  or  both.  .  .  .  *  Right 
as  rain' — that's  what  a  fellow  said  to  me  for  'all  right'! 
Ever  hear  such  nonsense? .  .  .  And  tea  for  breakfast!  Not 
for  me!  No,  sir!  I'm  going  to  take  the  first  steamer!" 

With  a  gigantic  smoke-puff  of  disgust  the  man  from 
Sleepy  Eye  stalked  out,  jingling  the  keys  in  his  trousers 
pocket,  cocking  up  his  cigar,  and  looking  as  though  he 
owned  the  restaurant. 

Mr.  Wrenn,  picturing  him  greeting  the  Singer  Tower 
from  an  incoming  steamer,  longed  to  see  the  tower. 

"Gee!     I'll  do  it!" 

He  rose  and,  from  that  table  in  the  basement  of  an 
A.  B.  C.  restaurant,  he  fled  to  America. 

He  dashed  up-stairs,  fidgeted  while  the  cashier  made  his 
change,  rang  for  a  bus,  whisked  into  his  room,  slammed  his 
things  into  his  suit-case,  announced  to  it  wildly  that  they 
were  going  home,  and  scampered  to  the  Northwestern 
Station.  He  walked  nervously  up  and  down  till  the 
Liverpool  train  departed.  "Suppose  Istra  wanted  to 
make  up,  and  came  back  to  London?"  was  a  terrifying 
thought  that  hounded  him.  He  dashed  into  the  waiting- 
room  and  wrote  to  her,  on  a  souvenir  post-card  showing 
the  Abbey:  "Called  back  to  America — will  write.  Ad 
dress  care  of  Souvenir  Company,  Twenty-eighth  Street." 
But  he  didn't  mail  the  card. 

Once  settled  in  a  second-class  compartment,  with  the 
train  in  motion,  he  seemed  already  much  nearer  America, 
and,  humming,  to  the  great  annoyance  of  a  lady  with 
bangs,  he  planned  his  new  great  work — the  making  of 

144 


HE    BUYS    AN   ORANGE   TIE 

friends;  the  discovery,  some  day,  if  Istra  should  not 
relent,  of  "somebody  to  go  home  to."  There  was  no  end 
to  the  "societies  and  lodges  and  stuff"  he  was  going  to 
join  directly  he  landed. 

At  Liverpool  he  suddenly  stopped  at  a  post-box  and 
mailed  his  card  to  Istra.  That  ended  his  debate.  Of 
course  after  that  he  had  to  go  back  to  America. 

He  sailed  exultantly,  one.  month  and  seventeen  days 
after  leaving  Portland. 


XII 

HE   DISCOVERS   AMERICA 

IN  his  white-painted  steerage  berth  Mr.  Wrenn  lay, 
with  a  scratch  -  pad  on  his  raised  knees  and  a  small 
mean  pillow  doubled  under  his  head,  writing  sample 
follow-up  letters  to  present  to  the  Souvenir  and  Art 
Novelty  Company,  interrupting  his  work  at  intervals 
to  add  to  a  list  of  the  books  which,  beginning  about  five 
minutes  after  he  landed  in  New  York,  he  was  going  to 
master.  He  puzzled  over  Marie  Corelii.  Morton  liked 
Miss  Corelii  so  much;  but  would  her  works  appeal  to 
Istra  Nash? 

He  had  worked  for  many  hours  on  a  letter  to  Istra  in 
which  he  avoided  mention  of  such  indecent  matters  as 
steerages  and  immigrants.  He  was  grateful,  he  told  her, 
for  "all  you  learned  me,"  and  he  had  thought  that 
Aengusmere  was  a  beautiful  place,  though  he  now  saw 
"what  you  meant  about  them  interesting  people,"  and 
his  New  York  address  would  be  the  Souvenir  Company. 

He  tore  up  the  several  pages  that  repeated  that  oldest 
most  melancholy  cry  of  the  lover,  which  rang  among  the 
deodars,  from  viking  ships,  from  the  moonlit  courtyards  of 
Provence,  the  cry  which  always  sounded  about  Mr.  Wrenn 
as  he  walked  the  deck:  "I  want  you  so  much;  I  miss  you 
so  unendingly;  I  am  so  lonely  for  you,  dear."  For  no 
more  clearly,  no  more  nobly  did  the  golden  Aucassin  or 
lean  Dante  word  that  cry  in  their  thoughts  than  did 
Mr.  William  Wrenn,  Our  Mr.  Wrenn. 

A  third-class  steward  with  a  mangy  mustache  and 

146 


HE    DISCOVERS    AMERICA 

setter -like  tan  eyes  came  teetering  down -stairs,  each 
step  like  a  nervous  pencil  tap  on  a  table,  and  peered  over 
the  side  of  Mr.  Wrenn's  berth.  He  loved  Mr.  Wrenn, 
who  was  proven  a  scholar  by  the  reading  of  real  bound 
books — an  English  history  and  a  second-hand  copy  of 
Haunts  of  Historic  English  Writers,  purchased  in  Liver 
pool — and  who  was  willing  to  listen  to  the  steward's 
serial  story  of  how  his  woman,  Mrs.  Wargle,  faithlessly 
consorted  with  Foddle,  the  cat's-meat  man,  when  the 
steward  was  away,  and,  when  he  was  home,  cooked  for 
him  lights  and  liver  that  unquestionably 'were  purchased 
from  the  same  cat's-meat  man.  He  now  leered  with  a 
fond  and  watery  gaze  upon  Mr.  Wrenn's  scholarly  pur 
suits,  and  announced  in  a  whisper: 

"They've  sighted  land." 

"Land?" 

"Oh  aye." 

Mr.  Wrenn  sat  up  so  vigorously  that  he  bumped  his 
head.  He  chucked  his  papers  beneath  the  pillow  with 
his  right  hand,  while  the  left  was  feeling  for  the  side  of  the 
berth.  "Land!"  he  bellowed  to  drowsing  cabin-mates  as 
he  vaulted  out. 

The  steerage  promenade-deck,  iron-sided,  black-floored, 
ending  in  the  iron  approaches  to  the  galley  at  one  end  and 
the  iron  superstructures  about  a  hatch  at  the  other,  was 
like  a  grim  swart  oilily  clean  machine-shop  aisle,  so  in 
closed,  so  over-roofed,  that  the  side  toward  the  sea  seemed 
merely  a  long  factory  window.  But  he  loved  it  and, 
except  when  he  had  guiltily  remembered  the  books  he  had 
to  read,  he  had  stayed  on  deck,  worshiping  the  nai've 
bright  attire  of  immigrants  and  the  dark  roll  and  glory 
of  the  sea. 

Now,  out  there  was  a  blue  shading,  made  by  a  magic 
pencil;  land,  his  land,  where  he  was  going  to  become  the 
beloved  comrade  of  all  the  friends  whose  likenesses  he  saw 
in  the  white-caps  flashing  before  him. 

Humming,  he  paraded  down  to  the  buffet,  where  small 

147 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

beer  and  smaller  tobacco  were  sold,  to  buy  another  pound 
of  striped  candy  for  the  offspring  of  the  Russian  Jews. 

The  children  knew  he  was  coming.  "Fat  rascals,"  he 
chuckled,  touching  their  dark  cheeks,  pretending  to  be 
frightened  as  they  pounded  soft  fists  against  the  iron  side 
of  the  ship  or  rolled  unregarded  in  the  scuppers.  Their 
shawled  mothers  knew  him,  too,  and  as  he  shyly  handed 
about  the  candy  the  chattering  stately  line  of  Jewish 
elders  nodded  their  beards  like  the  forest  primeval  in  a 
breeze,  saying  words  of  blessing  in  a  strange  tongue. 

He  smiled  back  and  made  gestures,  and  shouted  "Land! 
Land!"  with  several  variations  in  key,  to  make  it  sound 
foreign. 

But  he  withdrew  for  the  sacred  moment  of  seeing  the 
Land  of  Promise  he  was  newly  discovering — the  Long 
Island  shore;  the  grass-clad  redouts  at  Fort  Wadsworth; 
the  vast  pile  of  New  York  sky-scrapers,  standing  in  a  mist 
like  an  enormous  burned  forest. 

"Singer  Tower.  .  .  .  Butterick  Building,"  he  murmured, 
as  they  proceeded  toward  their  dock.  "That's  something 
like. . . .  Let's  see;  yes,  sir,  by  golly,  right  up  there  between 
the  Met.  Tower  and  the  Times — good  old  Souvenir  Com 
pany  office.  Jiminy!  'One  Dollar  to  Albany' — some 
thing  like  a  sign,  that  is — good  old  dollar!  To  thunder 
with  their  darn  shillings.  Home! .  .  .  Gee!  there's  where  I 
used  to  moon  on  a  wharf!  .  .  .  Gosh!  the  old  town  looks 
good." 

And  all  this  was  his  to  conquer,  for  friendship's 
sake. 

He  went  to  a  hotel.  While  he  had  to  go  back  to  the 
Zapps',  of  course,  he  did  not  wish,  by  meeting  those  old 
friends,  to  spoil  his  first  day.  No,  it  was  cheerfuler  to 
stand  at  a  window  of  his  cheap  hotel  on  Seventh  Avenue, 
watching  the  "good  old  American  crowd" — Germans, 
Irishmen,  Italians,  and  Jews.  He  went  to  the  Nickelorion 
and  grasped  the  hand  of  the  ticket  -  taker,  the  Brass- 
button  Man,  ejaculating:  "How  are  you?  Well,  how's 

148 


HE    DISCOVERS  AMERICA 

things  going  with  the  old  show? ...  I  been  away  couple  of 
months." 

"Fine  and  dandy!  Been  away,  uh?  Well,  it's  good 
to  get  back  to  the  old  town,  heh?  Summer  hotel?" 

"Unk?" 

"Why,  you're  the  waiter  at  Pat  Maloney's,  ain't  you?" 

Next  morning  Mr.  Wrenn  made  himself  go  to  the 
Souvenir  and  Art  Novelty  Company.  He  wanted  to  get 
the  teasing,  due  him  for  staying  away  so  short  a  time,  over 
as  soon  as  possible.  The  office  girl,  addressing  circulars, 
seemed  surprised  when  he  stepped  from  the  elevator,  and 
blushed  her  usual  shy  gratitude  to  the  men  of  the  office 
for  allowing  her  to  exist  and  take  away  six  dollars  weekly. 

Then  into  the  entry-room  ran  Rabin,  one  of  the  travel 
ing  salesmen. 

"Why,  hul-lo,  Wrenn!  Wondered  if  that  could  be  you. 
Back  so  soon?  Thought  you  were  going  to  Europe." 

"Just  got  back.  Couldn't  stand  it  away  from  you,  old 
scout!" 

"You  must  have  been  learning  to  sass  back  real  smart, 
in  the  Old  Country,  heh?  Going  to  be  with  us  again? 
Well,  see  you  again  soon.  Glad  see  you  back." 

He  was  not  madly  excited  at  seeing  Rabin;  still,  the 
drummer  was  part  of  the  good  old  Souvenir  Company,  the 
one  place  in  the  world  on  which  he  could  absolutely  de 
pend,  the  one  place  where  they  always  wanted  him. 

He  had  been  absently  staring  at  the  sample-tables,  not 
ing  new  novelties.  The  office  girl,  speaking  sweetly,  but 
as  to  an  outsider,  inquired,  "Who  did  you  wish  to  see, 
Mr.  Wrenn?" 

"Why!     Mr.  Guilfogle." 

"He's  busy,  but  if  you'll  sit  down  I  think  you  can  see 
him  in  a  few  minutes." 

Mr.  Wrenn  felt  like  the  prodigal  son,  with  no  calf  in 

sight,  at  having  to  wait  on  the  callers'  bench,  but  he 

shook  with  faint  excited  gurgles  of  mirth  at  the  thought  of 

the  delightful  surprise  Mr.  Mortimer  R.  Guilfogle,  the 

11  H9 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

office  manager,  was  going  to  have.  He  kept  an  eye  out  for 
Charley  Carpenter.  If  Charley  didn't  come  through  the 
entry-room  he'd  go  into  the  bookkeeping-room,  and — 
"talk  about  your  surprises " 

"Mr.  Guilfogle  will  see  you  now,"  said  the  office  girl. 

As  he  entered  the  manager's  office  Mr.  Guilfogle  made 
much  of  glancing  up  with  busy  amazement. 

•  "Well,   well,   Wrenn!     Back   so   soon?     Thought  you 
were  going  to  be  gone  quite  a  while." 

"Couldn't  keep  away  from  the  office,  Mr.  Guilfogle," 
with  an  uneasy  smile. 

"Have  a  good  trip?" 

"Yes,  a  dandy." 

"How'd  you  happen  to  get  back  so  soon?" 

"Oh,  I  wanted  to Say,  Mr.  Guilfogle,  I  really 

wanted  to  get  back  to  the  office  again.  I'm  awfully  glad 
to  see  it  again." 

"Glad  see  you.  Well,  where  did  you  go?  I  got  the 
card  you  sent  me  from  Chesterton  with  the  picture  of  the 
old  church  on  it." 

"Why,  I  went  to  Liverpool  and  Oxford  and  London  and 

— well — Kew   and    Ealing   and   places   and And    I 

tramped  through  Essex  and  Suffolk — all  through — on  foot. 
Aengusmere  and  them  places." 

"Just  a  moment.  (Well,  Rabin,  what  is  it?  Why  cer 
tainly.  I've  told  you  that  already  about  five  times.  Yes, 
I  said — that's  what  I  had  the  samples  made  up  for.  I 
wish  you'd  be  a  little  more  careful,  d'  ye  hear?)  You 
went  to  London,  did  you,  Wrenn?  Say,  did  you  notice 
any  novelties  we  could  copy?" 

"  No,  I'm  afraid  I  didn't,  Mr.  Guilfogle.  I'm  awfully 
sorry.  I  hunted  around,  but  I  couldn't  find  a  thing  we 
could  use.  I  mean  I  couldn't  find^anything  that  began 
to  come  up  to  our  line.  Them  English  are  pretty 
slow." 

"Didn't,  eh?    Well,  what's  your  plans  now?" 

"Why — uh — I    kind   of  thought Honestly,   Mr. 

150 


HE    DISCOVERS    AMERICA 

Guilfogle,  I'd  like  to  get  back  on  my  old  job.  You 
remember — it  was  to  be  fixed  so 

"Afraid  there's  nothing  doing  just  now,  Wrenn.  Not 
a  thing.  Course  I  can't  tell  what  may  happen,  and  you 
want  to  keep  in  touch  with  us,  but  we're  pretty  well 
filled  up  just  now.  Jake  is  getting  along  better  than  we 
thought.  He's  learning " 

Not  one  word  regarding  Jake's  excellence  did  Mr.  Wrenn 
hear. 

Not  get  the  job  back?     He  sat  down  and  stammered: 

"Gee!  I  hadn't  thought  of  that.  I'd  kind  of  banked 
on  the  Souvenir  Company,  Mr.  Guilfogle." 

"Well,  you  know  I  told  you  I  thought  you  were  an  idiot 
to  go.  I  warned  you." 

He  timidly  agreed,  mourning:  "Yes,  that  so;  I  know 
you  did.  But — uh — well ' 

"Sorry,  Wrenn.  That's  the  way  it  goes  in  business, 

though.  If  you  will  go  beating  it  around A  rolling 

stone  don't  gather  any  moss.  Well,  cheer  up!  Possibly 
there  may  be  something  doing  in — 

"Tr-r-r-r-r-r-r,"   said   the  telephone. 

Mr.  Guilfogle  remarked  into  it:  "Hello.  Yes,  it's  me. 
Well,  who  did  you  think  it  was?  The  cat?  Yuh.  Sure. 
No.  Well,  to-morrow,  probably.  All  right.  Good-by." 

Then  he  glanced  at  his  watch  and  up  at  Mr.  Wrenn 
impatiently. 

"Say,  Mr.  Guilfogle,  you  say  there'll  be — when  will 
there  be  likely  to  be  an  opening  ?" 

"Now,  how  can  I  tell,  my  boy?  We'll  work  you  in  if 
we  can — you  ain't  a  bad  clerk;  or  at  least  you  wouldn't  be 
if  you'd  be  a  little  more  careful.  By  the  way,  of  course 
you  understand  that  if  we  try  to  work  you  in  it  '11  take 
lots  of  trouble,  and  wVll  expect  you  to  not  go  flirting 
round  with  other  firms,  looking  for  a  job.  Understand 
that?" 

"Oh  yes,  sir." 

"All  right.     We  appreciate  your  work  all  right,  but  of 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

course  you  can't  expect  us  to  fire  any  of  our  present  force 
just  because  you  take  the  notion  to  come  back  whenever 
you  want  to.  ...  Hiking  off  to  Europe,  leaving  a  good  job! 
You  didn't  get  on  the  Continent,  did  you?" 

"No,  I " 

"Well.  . . ;  Oh,  say,  how's  the  grub  in  London?  Cheaper 
than  it  is  here?  The  wife  was  saying  this  morning  we'd 
have  to  stop  eating  if  the  high  cost  of  living  goes  on  going 
up." 

"Yes,  it's  quite  a  little  cheaper.  You  can  get  fine  tea 
for  two  and  three  cents  a  cup.  Clothes  is  cheaper,  too. 
But  I  don't  care  much  for  the  English,  though  there  is  all 
sorts  of  quaint  places  with  a  real  flavor.  .  .  .  Say,  Mr. 
Guilfogle,  you  know  I  inherited  a  little  money,  and  I  can 
wait  awhile,  and  you'll  kind  of  keep  me  in  mind  for  a 
place  if  one 

"Didn't  I  say  I  would?" 

"Yes,  but " 

"You  come  around  and  see  me  a  week  from  now.  And 
leave  your  address  with  Rosey.  I  don't  know,  though,  as 
we  can  afford  to  pay  you  quite  the  same  salary  at  first, 
even  if  we  can  work  you  in — the  season's  been  very  slack. 
But  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  you.  Come  in  and  see  me  in 
about  a  week.  Goo'  day." 

Rabin,  the  salesman,  waylaid  Mr.  Wrenn  in  the 
corridor. 

"You  look  kind  of  peeked,  Wrenn.  Old  Goglefogle  been 
lighting  into  you?  Say,  I  ought  to  have  told  you  first. 
I  forgot  it.  The  old  rat,  he's  been  planning  to  stick  the 
knife  into  you  all  the  while.  'Bout  two  weeks  ago  me  and 
him  had  a  couple  of  cocktails  at  Mouquin's.  You  know 
how  chummy  he  always  gets  after  a  couple  of  smiles. 
Well,  he  was  talking  about — I  was  saying  you're  a  good 
man  and  hoping  you  were  having  a  good  time — and  he 
said,  'Yes,'  he  says,  'he's  a  good  man,  but  he  sure  did  lay 
himself  wide  open  by  taking  this  trip.  I've  got  him  dead 
to  rights/  he  says  to  me.  '  I've  got  a  hunch  he'll  be  back 

152 


HE    DISCOVERS    AMERICA 

here  in  three  or  four  months,'  he  says  to  me.  '  And  do  you 
think  he'll  walk  in  and  get  what  he  wants?  Not  him. 
I'll  keep  him  waiting  a  month  before  I  give  him  back 
his  job,  and  then  you  watch,  Rabin/  he  says  to  me, 
'you'll  see  he'll  be  tickled  to  death  to  go  back  to  work  at 
less  salary  than  he  was  getting,  and  he'll  have  sense  enough 
to  not  try  this  stunt  of  getting  off  the  job  again  after  that. 
And  the  trip  '11  be  good  for  him,  anyway — he'll  do  better 
work — vacation  at  his  own  expense — save  us  money  all 
round.  I  tell  you,  Rabin,'  he  says  to  me,  'if  any  of  you 
boys  think  you  can  get  the  best  of  the  company  or  me  you 
just  want  to  try  it,  that's  all.'  Yessir,  that's  what  the  old 
rat  told  me.  You  want  to  watch  out  for  him." 

"Oh,  I  will;    indeed  I  will " 

"Did  he  spring  any  of  this  fairy  tale  just  now?" 

"Well,  kind  of.     Say,  thanks,  I'm  awful  obliged  to 

"Say,  for  the  love  of  Mike,  don't  let  him  know  I  told 
you." 

"No,  no,  I  sure  won't." 

They  parted.  Eager  though  he  was  for  the  great  mo 
ment  of  again  seeing  his  comrade,  Charley  Carpenter, 
Mr.  Wrenn  dribbled  toward  the  bookkeeping-room  mourn 
fully,  planning  to  tell  Charley  of  Guilfogle's  wickedness. 

The  head  bookkeeper  shook  his  head  at  Mr.  Wrenn's 
inquiry: 

"Charley  ain't  here  any  longer." 

"Ain't  here?" 

"No.  He  got  through.  He  got  to  boozing  pretty  bad, 
and  one  morning  about  three  weeks  ago,  when  he  had  a 
pretty  bad  hang-over,  he  told  Guilfogle  what  he  thought  of 
him,  so  of  course  Guilfogle  fired  him." 

"Oh,  that's  too  bad.  Say,  you  don't  know  his  address, 
do  you  ?" 

" East  a  Hundred   and   Eighteenth.   .   .   .  Well, 

I'm  glad  to  see  you  back,  Wrenn.  Didn't  expect  to  see 
you  back  so  soon,  but  always  glad  to  see  you.  Going 
to  be  with  us  ?" 

153 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"I  ain't  sure,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn,  crabbedly,  then  shook 
hands  warmly  with  the  bookkeeper,  to  show  there  was 
nothing  personal  in  his  snippishness. 

For  nearly  a  hundred  blocks  Mr.  Wrenn  scowled  at  an 
advertisement  of  Corn  Flakes  in  the  Third  Avenue 
Elevated  without  really  seeing  it.  ...  Should  he  go  back  to 
the  Souvenir  Company  at  all? 

Yes.  He  would.  That  was  the  best  way  to  start  mak 
ing  friends.  But  he  would  "get  our  friend  Guilfogle  at 
recess,"  he  assured  himself,  with  an  out-thrust  of  the 
jaw  like  that  of  the  great  Bill  Wrenn.  He  knew  Guilfogle's 
lead  now,  and  he  would  show  that  gentleman  that  he 
could  play  the  game.  He'd  take  that  lower  salary  and 
pretend  to  be  frightened,  but  when  he  got  the  chance 

He  did  not  proclaim  even  to  himself  what  dreadful  thing 
he  was  going  to  do,  but  as  he  left  the  Elevated  he  said 
over  and  over,  shaking  his  closed  fist  inside  his  coat  pocket: 

"When  I  get  the  chance — when  I  get  it " 

The  flat-building  where  Charley  Carpenter  lived  was 
one  of  hundreds  of  pressed-brick  structures,  apparently 
all  turned  out  of  the  same  mold.  It  was  filled  with  the 
smells  of  steamy  washing  and  fried  fish.  Languid  with 
the  heat,  Mr.  Wrenn  crawled  up  an  infinity  of  iron  steps 
and  knocked  three  times  at  Charley's  door.  No  answer. 
He  crawled  down  again  and  sought  out  the  janitress,  who 
stopped  watching  an  ice-wagon  in  the  street  to  say: 

"I  guess  you'll  be  finding  him  asleep  up  there,  sir. 
He  do  be  lying  there  drunk  most  of  the  day.  His  wife's 
left  him.  The  landlord's  give  him  notice  to  quit,  end  of 
August.  Warm  day,  sir.  Be  you  a  bill -collector? 
Mostly,  it's  bill-collectors  that " 

"Yes,  it  is  hot." 

Superior  in  manner,  but  deeply  dejected,  Mr.  Wrenn 
rang  the  down-stairs  bell  long  enough  to  wake  Charley, 
pantingly  got  himself  up  the  interminable  stairs,  and 
kicked  the  door  till  Charley's  voice  quavered  inside: 

154 


HE    DISCOVERS    AMERICA 

"Whozhat?" 

"It's  me,  Charley.     Wrenn." 

"You* re  in  Yurp.    Can't  fool  me.     G' 'way  from  there." 

Three  other  doors  on  the  same  landing  were  now  partly 
open  and  blocked  with  the  heads  of  frowsy  inquisitive 
women.  The  steamy  smell  was  thicker  in  the  darkness. 
Mr.  Wrenn  felt  prickly,  then  angry  at  this  curiosity,  and 
again  demanded: 

"Lemme  in,  I  say." 

"Tell  you  it  ain't  you.     I  know  you!" 

Charley  Carpenter's  pale  face  leered  out.  His  tousled 
hair  was  stuck  to  his  forehead  by  perspiration;  his  eyes 
were  red  and  vaguely  staring.  His  clothes  were  badly 
wrinkled.  He  wore  a  collarless  shirt  with  a  frilled  bosom 
of  virulent  pink,  its  cuffs  grimy  and  limp. 

"It's  oP  Wrenn.  C'm  in.  C'm  in  quick.  Collectors 
always  hanging  around.  They  can't  catch  me.  You 
bet." 

He  closed  the  door  and  wabbled  swiftly  down  the  long 
drab  hall  of  the  "railroad  flat,"  evidently  trying  to  walk 
straight.  The  reeking  stifling  main  room  at  the  end  of  the 
hall  was  terrible  as  Charley's  eyes.  Flies  boomed  every 
where.  The  oak  table,  which  Charley  and  his  bride  had 
once  spent  four  happy  hours  in  selecting,  was  littered  with 
half  a  dozen  empty  whisky-flasks,  collars,  torn  sensational 
newspapers,  dirty  plates  and  coffee-cups.  The  cheap  bro 
cade  cover,  which  a  bride  had  once  joyed  to  embroider 
with  red  and  green  roses,  was  half  pulled  off  and  dragged 
on  the  floor  amid  the  cigarette  butts,  Durham  tobacco, 
and  bacon  rinds  which  covered  the  green-and-yellow 
carpet-rug. 

This  much  Mr.  Wrenn  saw.  Then  he  set  himself  to  the 
hard  task  of  listening  to  Charley,  who  was  muttering: 

"Back  quick,  ain't  you,  ol'  Wrenn?  You  come  up  to 
see  me,  didn't  you?  You're  m'  friend,  ain't  you,  eh?  I 
got  an  awful  hang-over,  ain't  I  ?  You  don't  care,  do  you, 
oP  Wrenn?" 

155 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Mr.  Wrenn  stared  at  him  weakly,  but  only  for  a  minute. 
Perhaps  it  was  his  cattle-boat  experience  which  now  made 
him  deal  directly  with  such  drunkenness  as  would  have 
nauseated  him  three  months  before;  perhaps  his  attend 
ance  on  a  weary  Istra. 

"Come  now,  Charley,  you  got  to  buck  up,"  he  crooned. 

"All  riV 

"What's  the  trouble?  How  did  you  get  going  like 
this?" 

"Wife  left  me.  I  was  drinking.  You  think  I'm  drunk, 
don't  you?  But  I  ain't.  She  went  off  with  her  sister — 
always  hated  me.  She  took  my  money  out  of  savings- 
bank — three  hundred;  all  money  I  had  'cept  fifty  dollars. 
I'll  fix  her.  I'll  kill  her.  Took  to  hitting  the  booze. 
Goglefogle  fired  me.  Don't  care.  Drink  all  I  want. 
Keep  young  fellows  from  getting  it!  Say,  go  down  and 
get  me  pint.  Just  finished  up  pint.  Got  to  have  one — 
die  of  thirst.  Bourbon.  Get — 

"I'll  go  and  get  you  a  drink,  Charley — just  one  drink, 
savvy? — if  you'll  promise  to  get  cleaned  up,  like  I  tell 
you,  afterward." 

"All  ri'." 

Mr.  Wrenn  hastened  out  with  a  whisky-flask,  mutter 
ing,  feverishly,  "Gee!  I  got  to  save  him."  Returning,  he 
poured  out  one  drink,  as  though  it  were  medicine  for  a 
refractory  patient,  and  said,  soothingly: 

"Now  we'll  take  a  cold  bath,  heh?  and  get  cleaned  up 
and  sobered  up.  Then  we'll  talk  about  a  job,  heh?" 

"Aw,  don't  want  a  bath.  Say,  I  feel  better  now. 
Let's  go  out  and  have  a  drink.  Gimme  that  flask. 
Where  j'  yuh  put  it?" 

Mr.  Wrenn  went  to  the  bathroom,  turned  on  the  cold- 
water  tap,  returned,  and  undressed  Charley,  who  struggled 
and  laughed  and  let  his  whole  inert  weight  rest  against 
Mr.  Wrenn's  shoulder.  Though  normally  Charley  could 
have  beaten  three  Mr.  Wrenns,  he  was  run  into  the  bath 
room  and  poked  into  the  tub. 

156 


HE    DISCOVERS    AMERICA 

Instantly  he  began  to  splash,  throwing  up  water  in 
handfuls,  singing.  The  water  poured  over  the  side  of  the 
tub.  Mr.  Wrenn  tried  to  hold  him  still,  but  the  wet  sleek 
shoulders  slipped  through  his  hand  like  a  wet  platter. 
Wholesomely  vexed,  he  turned  off  the  water  and  slammed 
the  bathroom  door. 

In  the  bedroom  he  found  an  unwrinkled  winter-weight 
suit  and  one  clean  shirt.  In  the  living-room  he  hung 
up  his  coat,  covering  it  with  a  newspaper,  pulled  the 
broom  from  under  the  table,  and  prepared  to  sweep. 

The  disorder  was  so  great  that  he  made  one  of  the  inevi 
table  discoveries  of  every  housekeeper,  and  admitted  to 
himself  that  he  "didn't  know  where  to  begin."  He 
stumblingly  lugged  a  heavy  pile  of  dishes  from  the  center- 
table  to  the  kitchen,  shook  and  beat  and  folded  the  table- 
cover,  stuck  the  chairs  atop  the  table,  and  began  to 
sweep. 

At  the  door  a  shining  wet  naked  figure  stood,  bellowing: 
"Hey!     What  d'  yuh  think  you're  doing?     Cut  it  out." 
"Just  sweeping,  Charley,"  from  Mr.  Wrenn,  and  an 
uninterrupted  "Tuff,  tuff,  tuff"  from  the  broom. 
"Cut  it  out,  I  said.     Whose  house  is  this?" 
"Gwan  back  in  the  bath-tub,  Charley." 
"Say,  dj  yuh  think  you  can  run  me?     Get  out  of  this, 
or  I'll  throw  you  out.     Got  house  way  I  want  it." 

Bill  Wrenn,  the  cattleman,  rushed  at  him,  smacked  him 
with  the  broom,  drove  him  back  into  the  tub,  and  waited. 
He  laughed.  It  was  all  a  good  joke;  his  friend  Charley 
and  he  were  playing  a  little  game.  Charley  also  laughed 
and  splashed  some  more.  Then  he  wept  and  said  that  the 
water  was  cold,  and  that  he  was  now  deserted  by  his  only 
friend. 

"Oh,  shut  up,"  remarked  Bill  Wrenn,  and  swept  the 
bathroom  floor. 

Charley  stopped  swashing  about  to  sneer: 
"Li'l  ministering  angel,  ain't  you?     You  think  you're 
awful  good,  don't  you?     Come  up'  here  and  bother  me. 

157 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 


When  I  ain't  well.  Salvation  Army.  You . 

Aw,  lemme  'lone,  will  you?"  Bill  Wrenn  kept  on  sweep 
ing.  "Get  out,  you ." 

There  was  enough  energy  in  Charley's  voice  to  indicate 
that  he  was  getting  sober.  Bill  Wrenn  soused  him  under 
once  more,  so  thoroughly  that  his  own  cuffs  wTere  reduced 
to  a  state  of  flabbiness.  He  dragged  Charley  out,  helped 
him  dry  himself,  and  drove  him  to  bed. 

He  went  out  and  bought  dish-towels,  soap,  washing- 
powder,  and  collars  of  Charley's  size,  which  was  an  inch 
larger  than  his  own.  He  finished  sweeping  and  dusting 
and  washing  the  dishes — all  of  them.  He — who  had 
learned  to  comfort  Istra — he  really  enjoyed  it.  His  sense 
of  order  made  it  a  pleasure  to  see  a  plate  yellow  with 
dried  egg  glisten  iridescently  and  flash  into  shining  white 
ness;  or  a  room  corner  filled  with  dust  and  tobacco 
flakes  become  again  a  "nice  square  clean  corner  with  the 
baseboard  shining,  gee!  just  like  it  was  new." 

An  irate  grocer  called  with  a  bill  for  fifteen  dollars.  Mr. 
Wrenn  blandly  heard  his  threats  all  through,  pretending 
to  himself  that  this  was  his  home,  whose  honor  was  his 
honor.  He  paid  the  man  eight  dollars  on  account  and 
loftily  dismissed  him.  He  sat  down  to  wait  for  Charley, 
reading  a  newspaper  most  of  the  time,  but  rising  to  pursue 
stray  flies  furiously,  stumbling  over  chairs,  and  making 
murderous  flappings  with  a  folded  newspaper. 

When  Charley  awoke,  after  three  hours,  clear  of  mind 
but  not  at  all  clear  as  regards  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  Mr. 
Wrenn  gave  him  a  very  little  whisky,  with  considerable 
coffee,  toast,  and  bacon.  The  toast  was  not  bad. 

"Now,  Charley,"  he  said,  cheerfully,  "your  bat's  over, 
ain't  it,  old  man?" 

"Say,  you  been  darn'  decent  to  me,  old  man.  Lord! 
how  you've  been  sweeping  up !  How  was  I — was  I  pretty 
soused?" 

"Honest,  you  were  fierce.  You  will  sober  up,  now, 
won't  you?" 


HE   DISCOVERS   AMERICA 

"Well,  it's  no  wonder  I  had  a  classy  hang-over,  Wrenn. 
I  was  at  the  Amusieren  Rathskeller  till  four  this  morning, 
and  then  I  had  a  couple  of  nips  before  breakfast,  and  then 
I  didn't  have  any  breakfast.  But  sa-a-a-ay,  man,  I  sure 
did  have  some  fiesta  last  night.  There  was  a  little 
peroxide  blonde  that " 

"Now  you  look  here,  Carpenter;  you  listen  to  me. 
You're  sober  now.  Have  you  tried  to  find  another  job  ?" 

"Yes,  I  did.  But  I  got  down  in  the  mouth.  Didn't 
feel  like  I  had  a  friend  left." 

"Well,  you  h " 

"But  I  guess  I  have  now,  old  Wrennski." 

"Look  here,  Charley,  you  know  I  don't  want  to  pull  off 
no  Charity  Society  stunt  or  talk  like  I  was  a  preacher. 
But  I  like  you  so  darn  much  I  want  to  see  you  sober  up 
and  get  another  job.  Honestly  I  do,  Charley.  Are 
you  broke  ?" 

"  Prett'  nearly.  Only  got  about  ten  dollars  to  my  name. 
...  I  will  take  a  brace,  old  man.  I  know  you  ain't  no 
preacher.  Course  if  you  came  around  with  any  'holier- 
than-thou'  stunt  I'd  have  to  go  right  out  and  get  soused 
on  general  principles.  .  .  .  Yuh — I'll  try  to  get  a  job." 

"Here's  ten  dollars.  Please  take  it — aw — please, 
Charley." 

"All  right;   anything  to  oblige." 

"What  've  you  got  in  sight  in  the  job  line?" 

"Well,  there's  a  chance  at  night  clerking  in  a  little 
hotel  where  I  was  a  bell-hop  long  time  ago.  The  night 
clerk's  going  to  get  through,  but  I  don't  know  just  when — 
prob'ly  in  a  week  or  two." 

"Well,  keep  after  it.  And  please  come  down  to  see  me 
— the  old  place — West  Sixteenth  Street." 

"What  about  the  old  girl  with  the  ingrowing  grouch? 
What's  her  name?  She  ain't  stuck  on  me." 

"Mrs.  Zapp?  Oh — hope  she  chokes.  She  can  just 
kick  all  she  wants  to.  I'm  just  going  to  have  all  the 
visitors  I  want  to." 

159 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"All  right.     Say,  tell  us  something  about  your  trip." 

"Oh,  I  had  a  great  time.  Lots  of  nice  fellows  on  the 
cattle-boat.  I  went  over  on  one,  you  know.  Fellow 
named  Morton — awfully  nice  fellow.  Say,  Charley,  you 
ought  to  seen  me  being  butler  to  the  steers.  Handing  'em 
hay.  But  say,  the  sea  was  fine;  all  kinds  of  colors. 
Awful  dirty  on  the  cattle-boat,  though." 

"Hard  work?" 

"Yuh — kind  of  hard.     Oh,  not  so  very." 

"What  did  you  see  in  England?" 

"Oh,  a  lot  of  different  places.  Say,  I  seen  some  great 
vaudeville  in  Liverpool,  Charley,  with  Morton — he's  a 
slick  fellow;  works  for  the  Pennsylvania,  here  in  town. 
I  got  to  look  him  up.  Say,  I  wish  we  had  an  agency  for 
college  sofa-pillows  and  banners  and  souvenir  stuff  in 
Oxford.  There's  a  whole  bunch  of  colleges  there,  all 
right  in  the  same  town.  I  met  a  prof,  there  from  some 
American  college — he  hired  an  automobubble  and  took  me 
down  to  a  reg'lar  old  inn — 

"Well,  well!" 
* like  you  read  about;   sanded  floor!" 

"Get  to  London?" 

"Yuh.  Gee!  it's  a  big  place.  Say,  that  Westminster 
Abbey's  a  great  place.  I  was  in  there  a  couple  of  times. 
More  darn  tombs  of  kings  and  stuff.  And  I  see  a  bishop, 
with  leggins  on!  But  I  got  kind  of  lonely.  I  thought  of 
you  a  lot  of  times.  Wished  we  could  go  out  and  get  an  ale 
together.  Maybe  pick  up  a  couple  of  pretty  girls." 

"Oh,  you  sport!  .  .  .  Say,  didn't  get  over  to  gay  Paree, 
did  you?" 

"Nope.  .  .  .  Well,  I  guess  I'd  better  beat  it  now.  Got 
to  move  in — I'm  at  a  hotel.  You  will  come  down  and  see 
me  to-night,  won't  you?" 

"So  you  thought  of  me,  eh?  ...  Yuh — sure,  old  socks. 
I'll  be  down  to-night.  And  I'll  get  right  after  that  job." 

It  is  doubtful  whether  Mr.  Wrenn  would  ever  have  re 
turned  to  the  Zapps'  had  he  not  promised  to  see  Charley 

160 


HE    DISCOVERS    AMERICA 

there.  Even  while  he  was  carrying  his  suit-case  down 
West  Sixteenth,  broiling  by  degrees  in  the  sunshine,  he 
felt  like  rushing  up  to  Charley's  and  telling  him  to  come 
to  the  hotel  instead. 

Lee  Theresa,  taking  the  day  off  with  a  headache,  an 
swered  the  bell,  and  ejaculated: 

"Well!     So  it's  you,  is  it ?" 

"I  guess  it  is." 

"What,  are  you  back  so  soon?  Why,  you  ain't  been 
gone  more  than  a  month  and  a  half,  have  you?" 

Beware,  daughter  of  Southern  pride!  The  little  Yan 
kee  is  regarding  your  full-blown  curves  and  empty  eyes 
with  rebellion,  though  he  says,  ever  so  meekly: 

"Yes,  I  guess  it  is  about  that,  Miss  Theresa." 

"Well,  I  just  knew  you  couldn't  stand  it  away  from  us. 
I  suppose  you'll  want  your  room  back.  Ma,  here's  Mr. 
Wrenn  back  again — Mr.  Wrenn!  Ma!" 

"Oh-h-h-h!"  sounded  Goaty  Zapp's  voice,  in  impish 
disdain,  below.  "Mr.  Wrenn's  back.  Hee,  hee!  Couldn't 
stand  it.  Ain't  that  like  a  Yankee!" 

A  slap,  a  wail,  then  Mrs.  Zapp's  elephantine  slowness 
on  the  stairs  from  the  basement.  She  appeared,  button 
ing  her  collar,  smiling  almost  pleasantly,  for  she  disliked 
Mr.  Wrenn  less  than  she  did  any  other  of  her  lodgers. 

"Back  already,  Mist'  Wrenn?  Ah  declare,  Ah  was 
saying  to  Lee  Theresa  just  yest'day,  Ah  just  knew  you'd 
be  wishing  you  was  back  with  us.  Won't  you  come  in  ?" 

He  edged  into  the  parlor  with,  "How  is  the  sciatica, 
Mrs.  Zapp?" 

"Ah  ain't  feeling  right  smart." 

"My  room  occupied  yet?" 

He  was  surveying  the  airless  parlor  rather  heavily,  and 
his  curt  manner  was  not  pleasing  to  the  head  of  the  house 
of  Zapp,  who  remarked,  funereally: 

"It  ain't  taken  just  now,  Mist'  Wrenn,  but  Ah  dunno. 
There  was  a  gennulman  a-looking  at  it  just  yesterday,  and 
he  said  he'd  be  permanent  if  he  came.  Ah  declare,  Mist* 

161 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Wrenn,  Ah  dunno  's  Ah  like  to  have  my  gennulmen  just 
get  up  and  go  without  giving  me  notice." 

Lee  Theresa  scowled  at  her. 

Mr.  Wrenn  retorted,  "I  did  give  you  notice." 

"Ah  know,  but — well,  Ah  reckon  Ah  can  let  you 
have  it,  but  Ah'll  have  to  have  four  and  a  half  a  week 
instead  of  four.  Prices  is  all  going  up  so,  Ah  declare,  Ah 
was  just  saying  to  Lee  T'resa  Ah  dunno  what  we're  all 
going  to  do  if  the  dear  Lord  don't  look  out  for  us.  And, 
Mist'  Wrenn,  Ah  dunno's  Ah  like  to  have  you  coming  in  so 
late  nights.  But  Ah  reckon  Ah  can  accommodate  you." 

"It's  a  good  deal  of  a  favor,  isn't  it,  Mrs.  Zapp?" 

Mr.  Wrenn  was  dangerously  polite.  Let  gentility  look 
out  for  the  sharp  practices  of  the  Yankee. 

"Yes,  but " 

It  was  our  hero,  our  madman  of  the  seven  and  seventy 
seas,  our  revolutionist  friend  of  Istra,  who  leaped  straight 
from  the  salt-incrusted  decks  of  his  laboring  steamer  to 
the  musty  parlor  and  declared,  quietly  but  unmovably — 
practically  unmovably — "Well,  then,  I  guess  I'd  better 
not  take  it  at  all." 

"So  that's  the  way  you're  going  to  treat  usl"  bellowed 
Mrs.  Zapp.  "You  go  off  and  leave  us  with  an  unoccupied 
room  and Oh!  You  poor  white  trash — you " 

"Ma!  You  shut  up  and  go  down-stairs-s-s-s-s !" 
Theresa  hissed.  "Go  on." 

Mrs.  Zapp  wabbled  regally  out.  Lee  Theresa  spoke  to 
Mr.  Wrenn: 

"Ma  ain't  feeling  a  bit  well  this  afternoon.  I'm  sorry 
she  talked  like  that.  You  will  come  back,  won't  you?" 
She  showed  all  her  teeth  in  a  genuine  smile,  and  in  her 
anxiety  reached  his  heart.  "Remember,  you  promised 
you  would." 

"Well,  I  will,  but 

Bill  Wrenn  was  fading,  an  affrighted  specter.  The 
"but"  was  the  last  glimpse  of  him,  and  that  Theresa  over 
looked,  as  she  bustlingly  chirruped:  "I  knew  you  would 

162 


HE    DISCOVERS    AMERICA 

understand.     I'll  skip  right  up  and  look  at  the  room  and 
put  on  fresh  sheets." 

One  month,  one  hot  New  York  month,  passed  before  the 
imperial  Mr.  Guilfogle  gave  him  back  The  Job,  and  then 
at  seventeen  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  week  instead  of 
his  former  nineteen  dollars.  Mr.  Wrenn  refused,  upon 
pretexts,  to  go  out  with  the  manager  for  a  drink,  and 
presented  him  with  twenty  suggestions  for  new  novelties 
and  circular  letters.  He  rearranged  the  unsystematic 
methods  of  Jake,  the  cub,  and  two  days  later  he  was  at 
work  as  though  he  had  never  in  his  life  been  farther  from 
the  Souvenir  Company  than  Newark. 


XIII 


DEAR  ISTRA,— I  am  back  in  New  York  feeling  very  well 
&  hope  this  finds  you  the  same.  I  have  been  wanting  to 
write  to  you  for  quite  a  while  now  but  there  has  not  been  much 
news  of  any  kind  &  so  I  have  not  written  to  you.  But  now  I 
am  back  working  for  the  Souvenir  Company.  I  hope  you  are 
having  a  good  time  in  Paris  it  must  be  a  very  pretty  city  &  I 
have  often  wished  to  be  there  perhaps  some  day  I  shall  go.  I 
[several  erasures  herej  have  been  reading  quite  a  few  books 
since  I  got  back  &  think  now  I  shall  get  on  better  with  my 
reading.  You  told  me  so  many  things  about  books  &  so  on  &  I 
do  appreciate  it.  In  closing,  I  am  yours  very  sincerely, 

WILLIAM  WRENN. 

There  was  nothing  else  he  could  say.  But  there  were 
a  terrifying  number  of  things  he  could  think  as  he 
crouched  by  the  window  overlooking  West  Sixteenth 
Street,  whose  dull  hue  had  not  changed  during  the  cen 
turies  while  he  had  been  tramping  England.  Her  smile 
he  remembered — and  he  cried,  "Oh,  I  want  to  see  her  so 
much."  Her  gallant  dash  through  the  rain — and  again 
the  cry. 

At  last  he  cursed  himself,  "Why  don't  you  do  something 
that  *d  count  for  her,  and  not  sit  around  yammering  for 
her  like  a  fool  ?" 

He  worked  on  his  plan  to  "bring  the  South  into  line" — 
the  Souvenir  Company's  line.  Again  and  again  he  sprang 
up  from  the  writing-table  in  his  hot  room  when  the 
presence  of  Istra  came  and  stood  compellingly  by  his 
chair.  But  he  worked. 

164 


HE    IS    "OUR    MR.    WRENN' 

The  Souvenir  Company  salesmen  had  not  been  able  to 
get  from  the  South  the  business  which  the  company 
deserved  if  right  and  justice  were  to  prevail.  On  the 
steamer  from  England  Mr.  Wrenn  had  conceived  the  idea 
that  a  Dixieland  Ink-well,  with  the  Confederate  and 
Union  flags  draped  in  graceful  cast  iron,  would  make  an 
admirable  present  with  which  to  draw  the  attention  of  the 
Southern  trade.  The  ink-well  was  to  be  followed  by  a 
series  of  letters,  sent  on  the  slightest  provocation,  on  order 
or  re-order,  tactfully  hoping  the  various  healths  of  the 
Southland  were  good  and  the  baseball  season  important;  all 
to  insure  a  welcome  to  the  salesmen  on  the  Southern  route. 

He  drew  up  his  letters;  he  sketched  his  ink-wTell;  he 
got  up  the  courage  to  talk  with  the  office  manager.  .  .  . 
To  forget  love  and  the  beloved,  men  have  ascended  in 
aeroplanes  and  conquered  African  tribes.  To  forget  love, 
a  new,  busy,  much  absorbed  Mr.  Wrenn,  very  much  Ours, 
bustled  into  Mr.  Guilfogle's  office,  slapped  down  his  papers 
on  the  desk,  and  demanded:  "Here's  that  plan  about  get- 
tin*  the  South  interested  that  I  was  telling  you  about. 
Say,  honest,  I'd  like  awful  much  to  try  it  on.  Fd  just 
have  to  have  part  time  of  one  stenographer." 

"Well,  you  know  our  stenographers  are  pretty  well 
crowded.  But  you  can  leave  the  outline  with  me.  I'll 
look  it  over,"  said  Mr.  Guilfogle. 

That  same  afternoon  the  manager  enthusiastically 
O.  K.'d  the  plan.  To  enthusiastically-O.  K.  is  an  office 
technology  for  saying,  gloomily,  "Well,  I  don't  suppose 
it  'd  hurt  to  try  it,  anyway,  but  for  the  love  of  Mike  be 
careful,  and  let  me  see  any  letters  you  send  out." 

So  Mr.  Wrenn  dictated  a  letter  to  each  of  their  Southern 
merchants,  sending  him  a  Dixieland  Ink-well  and  inquir 
ing  about  the  crops.  He  had  a  stenographer,  an  efficient 
intolerant  young  woman  who  wrote  down  his  halting 
words  as  though  they  were  examples  of  bad  English  she 
wanted  to  show  her  friends,  and  waited  for  the  next  word 
with  cynical  amusement. 

12  165 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"By  gosh!"  growled  Bill  Wrenn,  the  cattleman,  "I'll 
show  her  I'm  running  this.  I'll  show  her  she's  got  an 
other  think  coming."  But  he  dictated  so  busily  and  was 
so  hot  to  get  results  that  he  forgot  the  girl's  air  of  high- 
class  martyrdom. 

He  watched  the  Southern  baseball  results  in  the  papers. 
He  seized  on  every  salesman  on  the  Southern  route  as  he 
came  in,  and  inquired  about  the  religion  and  politics  of 
the  merchants  in  his  district.  He  even  forgot  to  worry 
about  his  next  rise  in  salary,  and  found  it  much  more 
exciting  to  rush  back  for  an  important  letter  after  a 
quick  lunch  than  to  watch  the  time  and  make  sure  that 
he  secured  every  minute  of  his  lunch-hour. 

When  October  came — October  of  the  vagabond,  with  the 
leaves  brilliant  out  on  the  Palisades,  and  Sixth  Avenue 
moving-picture  palaces  cool  again  and  gay — Mr.  Wrenn 
stayed  late,  under  the  mercury-vapor  lights,  making 
card  cross-files  of  the  Southern  merchants,  their  hobbies 
and  prejudices,  and  whistling  as  he  worked,  stopping  now 
and  then  to  slap  the  desk  and  mutter,  "By  gosh!  I'm 
gettin'  'em — gettin'  'em." 

He  rarely  thought  of  Istra  till  he  was  out  on  the  street 
again,  proud  of  having  worked  so  late  that  his  eyes  ached. 
In  fact,  his  chief  troubles  these  days  came  when  Mr. 
Guilfogle  wouldn't  "let  him  put  through  an  idea." 

Their  first  battle  was  over  Mr.  Wrenn's  signing  the 
letters  personally;  for  the  letters,  the  office  manager  felt, 
were  as  much  Ours  as  was  Mr.  Wrenn,  and  should  be 
signed  by  the  firm.  After  some  difficulty  Mr.  Wrenn 
persuaded  him  that  one  of  the  best  ways  to  handle  a 
personal  letter  was  to  make  it  personal.  They  nearly 
cursed  each  other  before  Mr.  Wrenn  was  allowed  to  use 
his  own  judgment. 

It's  not  at  all  certain  that  Mr.  Guilfogle  should  have 
yielded.  What's  the  use  of  a  manager  if  his  underlings 
use  judgment? 

The  next  battle  Mr.  Wrenn  lost.  He  had  demanded  a 

1 66 


HE   IS    "OUR   MR.    WRENN' 

monthly  holiday  for  his  stenographer.  Mr.  Guilfogle 
pointed  out  that  she'd  merely  be  the  worse  off  for  a 
holiday,  that  it  'd  make  her  discontented,  that  it  was  a 
kindness  to  her  to  keep  her  mind  occupied.  Mr.  Wrenn 
was,  however,  granted  a  new  typewriter,  in  a  manner 
which  revealed  the  fact  that  the  Souvenir  Company  was 
filled  with  almost  too  much  mercy  in  permitting  an  em 
ployee  to  follow  his  own  selfish  and  stubborn  desires. 

You  cannot  trust  these  employees.  Mr.  Wrenn  was 
getting  so  absorbed  in  his  work  that  he  didn't  even  act 
as  though  it  was  a  favor  when  Mr.  Guilfogle  allowed  him 
to  have  his  letters  to  the  trade  copied  by  carbon  paper 
instead  of  having  them  blurred  by  the  wet  tissue-paper 
of  a  copy-book.  The  manager  did  grant  the  request,  but 
he  was  justly  indignant  at  the  curt  manner  of  the  rascal, 
whereupon  our  bumptious  revolutionist,  our  friend  to 
anarchists  and  red-headed  artists,  demanded  a  "raise" 
and  said  that  he  didn't  care  a  hang  if  the  [qualified]  letters 
never  went  out.  The  kindness  of  chiefs!  For  Mr. 
Guilfogle  apologized  and  raised  the  madman's  wage  from 
seventeen  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  week  to  his  former 
nineteen  dollars.  [He  had  expected  eighteen  dollars;  he 
had  demanded  twenty-two  dollars  and  fifty  cents;  he 
was  worth  on  the  labor  market  from  twenty -five  to 
thirty  dollars;  while  the  profit  to  the  Souvenir  Company 
from  his  work  was  about  sixty  dollars  minus  whatever 
salary  he  got.] 

Not  only  that.  Mr.  Guilfogle  slapped  him  on  the  back 
and  said:  "You're  doing  good  work,  old  man.  It's  fine. 
I  just  don't  want  you  to  be  too  reckless." 

That  night  Wrenn  worked  till  eight. 

After  his  raise  he  could  afford  to  go  to  the  theater,  since 
he  was  not  saving  money  for  travel.  He  wrote  small 
letters  to  Istra  and  read  the  books  he  believed  she  would 
approve — a  Paris  Baedeker  and  the  second  volume  of 
Tolstoi's  War  and  Peace,  which  he  bought  at  a  second 
hand  book-stall  for  five  cents.  He  became  interested  in 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

popular  and  inaccurate  French  and  English  histories,  and 
secreted  any  amount  of  footnote  anecdotes  about  Guy 
Fawkes  and  rush-lights  and  the  divine  right  of  kings. 
He  thought  almost  every  night  about  making  friends, 
which  he  intended — just  as  much  as  ever — to  do  as  soon 
as  Sometime  arrived. 

On  the  day  on  which  one  of  the  Southern  merchants 
wrote  him  about  his  son — "fine  young  fellow,  sir — has 
every  chance  of  rising  to  a  lieutenancy  on  the  Atlanta 
police  force" — Mr.  Wrenn's  eyes  were  moist.  Here  was 
a  friend  already.  Sure.  He  would  make  friends.  Then 
there  was  the  cripple  with  the  Capitol  Corner  News  and 
Souvenir  Stand  in  Austin,  Texas.  Mr.  Wrenn  secreted 
two  extra  Dixieland  Ink-wells  and  a  Yale  football  banner 
and  sent  them  to  the  cripple  for  his  brothers,  who  were  in 
the  Agricultural  College. 

The  orders — yes,  they  were  growing  larger.  The 
Southern  salesmen  took  him  out  to  dinner  sometimes. 
But  he  was  shy  of  them.  They  were  so  knowing  and  had 
so  many  smoking-room  stories.  He  still  had  not  found 
the  friends  he  desired. 

Miggleton's  restaurant,  on  Forty-second  Street,  was  a 
romantic  discovery.  Though  it  had  "popular  prices" — 
plain  omelet,  fifteen  cents — it  had  red  and  green  bracket 
lights,  mission-style  tables,  and  music  played  by  a  sparrow- 
like  pianist  and  a  violinist.  Mr.  Wrenn  never  really 
heard  the  music,  but  while  it  was  quavering  he  had  a 
happier  appreciation  of  the  Silk-Hat-Harry  humorous 
pictures  in  the  Journal,  which  he  always  propped  up 
against  an  oil -cruet.  [That  never  caused  him  incon 
venience;  he  had  no  convictions  in  regard  to  salads.] 
He  would  drop  the  paper  to  look  out  of  the  window  at  the 
Lazydays  Improvement  Company's  electric  sign,  showing 
gardens  of  paradise  on  the  instalment  plan,  and  dream  of — 
well,  he  hadn't  the  slightest  idea  what — something  dis 
tant  and  deliciously  likely  to  become  intimate.  Once  or 

1 68 


HE   IS    "OUR    MR.    WRENN' 

twice  he  knew  that  he  was  visioning  the  girl  in  soft  brown 
whom  he  would  "go  home  to,"  and  who,  in  a  Lazydays 
suburban  residence,  would  play  just  such  music  for  him 
and  the  friends  who  lived  near  by.  She  would  be  as  clever 
as  Istra,  but  "oh,  more  so's  you  can  go  regular  places  with 
her."  .  .  .  Often  he  got  good  ideas  about  letters  South,  to 
be  jotted  down  on  envelope  backs,  from  that  music. 

At  last  comes  the  historic  match-box  incident. 

On  that  October  evening  in  1910  he  dined  early  at 
Miggleton's.  The  thirty-cent  table  d'hote  was  perfect. 
The  cream-of-corn  soup  was,  he  went  so  far  as  to  remark 
to  the  waitress,  "simply  slick";  the  Waldorf  salad  had 
two  whole  walnuts  in  his  portion  alone. 

The  fat  man  with  the  white  waistcoat,  whom  he  had 
often  noted  as  dining  in  this  same  corner  of  the  restaurant, 
smiled  at  him  and  said  "Pleasant  evening"  as  he  sat 
down  opposite  Mr.  Wrenn  and  smoothed  the  two  sleek 
bangs  which  decorated  the  front  of  his  nearly  bald  head. 

The  music  included  a  "potpourri  of  airs  from  'The 
Merry  Widow,' "  which  set  his  foot  tapping.  All  the 
while  he  was  conscious  that  he'd  made  the  Seattle  Novelty 
and  Stationery  Corner  Store  come  through  with  a  rive- 
hundred-dollar  order  on  one  of  his  letters. 

The  Journal  contained  an  editorial  essay  on  "Friend 
ship"  which  would  have  been,  and  was,  a  credit  to 
Cicero. 

He  laid  down  the  paper,  stirred  his  large  cup  of  coffee, 
and  stared  at  the  mother-of-pearl  buttons  on  the  waist 
coat  of  the  fat  man,  who  was  now  gulping  down  soup, 
opposite  him.  "My  land!"  he  was  thinking,  "friendship! 
I  ain't  even  begun  to  make  all  those  friends  I  was  going  to. 
Haven't  done  a  thing.  Oh,  I  will;  I  must!" 

"Nice  night,"  said  the  fat  man. 

"Yuh — it  sure  is,"  brightly  agreed  Mr.  Wrenn. 

"Reg'lar  Indian-Summer  weather." 

"Yes,  isn't  it!  I  feel  like  taking  a  walk  on  Riverside 
Drive— b'lieve  I  will." 

169 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Wish  I  had  time.  But  I  gotta  get  down  to  the  store — 
cigar-store.  I'm  on  nights,  three  times  a  week." 

"  Yuh.  I've  seen  you  here  most  every  time  I  eat  early," 
Mr.  Wrenn  purred. 

"Yuh.  The  rest  of  the  time  I  eat  at  the  boarding- 
house." 

Silence.  But  Mr.  Wrenn  was  fighting  for  things  to  say, 
means  of  approach,  for  the  chance  to  become  acquainted 
with  a  new  person,  for  all  the  friendly  human  ways  he  had 
desired  in  nights  of  loneliness. 

"Wonder  when  they'll  get  the  Grand  Central  done?" 
asked  the  fat  man. 

"I  s'pose  it  '11  take  quite  a  few  years,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn, 
conversationally. 

"Yuh.     I  s'pose  it  will." 

Silence. 

Mr.  Wrenn  sat  trying  to  think  of  something  else  to  say. 
Lonely  people  in  city  restaurants  simply  do  not  get 
acquainted.  Yet  he  did  manage  to  observe,  "Great 
building  that  '11  be,"  in  the  friendliest  manner. 

Silence. 

Then  the  fat  man  went  on: 

"Wonder  what  Wolgast  will  do  in  his  mill?  Don't 
believe  he  can  stand  up." 

Wolgast  was,  Mr.  Wrenn  seemed  to  remember,  a 
pugilist.  He  agreed  vaguely: 

"Pretty  hard,  all  right." 

"Go  out  to  the  areoplane  meet?"  asked  the  fat  man. 

"No.  But  I'd  like  to  see  it.  Gee!  there  must  be  kind 
of — kind  of  adventure  in  them  things,  heh?" 

"Yuh — sure  is.  First  machine  I  saw,  though — I  was 
just  getting  off  the  train  at  Belmont  Park,  and  there  was 
an  areoplane  up  in  the  air,  and  it  looked  like  one  of  them 
big  mechanical  beetles  these  fellows  sell  on  the  street 
buzzing  around  up  there.  I  was  kind  of  disappointed. 
But  what  do  you  think?  It  was  that  J.  A.  D.  McCurdy, 
in  a  Curtiss  biplane — I  think  it  was — and  by  golly!  he  got 

170 


HE    IS    "OUR    MR.    WRENN' 

to  circling  around  and  racing  and  tipping  so's  I  thought 
I'd  loose  my  hat  off,  I  was  so  excited.  And,  say,  what  do 
you  think?  I  see  McCurdy  himself,  afterward,  standing 
near  one  of  the — the  handgars — handsome  young  chap, 
not  over  twenty-eight  or  thirty,  built  like  a  half-miler. 
And  then  I  see  Ralph  Johnstone  and  Arch  Hoxey " 

"Gee!"  Mr.  Wrenn  was  breathing. 

" dipping  and  doing  the — what  do  you  call  it? — 

Dutch  sausage-roll  or  something  like  that.  Yelled  my 
head  off." 

"Oh,  it  must  have  been  great  to  see  'em,  and  so  close,  *' 
too." 

"Yuh — it  sure  was." 

There  seemed  to  be  no  other  questions  to  settle.  Mr. 
Wrenn  slowly  folded  up  his  paper,  pursued  his  check  under 
three  plates  and  the  menu-card  to  its  hiding-place  beyond 
the  catsup-bottle,  and  left  the  table  with  a  regretful 
"Good  night." 

At  the  desk  of  the  cashier,  a  decorative  blonde,  he  put 
a  cent  in  the  machine  which  good-naturedly  drops  out 
boxes  of  matches.  No  box  dropped  this  time,  though  he 
worked  the  lever  noisily. 

"Out  of  order?"  asked  the  cashier  lady.  "Here's  two 
boxes  of  matches.  Guess  you've  earned  them." 

"Well,  well,  well,  well!"  sounded  the  voice  of  his  friend, 
the  fat  man,  who  stood  at  the  desk  paying  his  bill. 
"Pretty  easy,  heh?  Two  boxes  for  one  cent!  Sting  the 
restaurant."  Cocking  his  head,  he  carefully  inserted  a 
cent  in  the  slot  and  clattered  the  lever,  turning  to  grin 
at  Mr.  Wrenn,  who  grinned  back  as  the  machine  failed  to 
work. 

"Let  me  try  it,"  caroled  Mr.  Wrenn,  and  pounded  the 
lever  with  the  enthusiasm  of  comradeship. 

"Nothing  doing,  lady,"  crowed  the  fat  man  to  the 
cashier.  "I  guess  7  draw  two  boxes,  too,  eh  ?  And  I'm  in 
a  cigar-store.  How's  that  for  stinging  your  competitors, 
heh?  Ho,  ho,  ho!" 

171 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

The  cashier  handed  him  two  boxes,  with  an  embarrassed 
simper,  and  the  fat  man  clapped  Mr.  Wrenn's  shoulder 
joyously. 

"My  turn!"  shouted  a  young  man  in  a  fuzzy  green  hat 
and  a  bright-brown  suit,  who  had  been  watching  with  the 
sudden  friendship  which  unites  a  crowd  brought  together 
by  an  accident. 

Mr.  Wrenn  was  glowing.  "No,  it  ain't — it's  mine,"  he 
achieved.  "I  invented  this  game."  Never  had  he  so 
stood  forth  in  a  crowd.  He  was  a  Bill  Wrenn  with  the 
cosmopolitan  polish  of  a  floor-walker.  He  stood  beside  the 
fat  man  as  a  friend  of  sorts,  a  person  to  be  taken  per 
fectly  seriously. 

It  is  true  that  he  didn't  add  to  this  spiritual  triumph 
the  triumph  of  getting  two  more  boxes  of  matches,  for  the 
cashier-girl  exclaimed,  "No  indeedy;  it's  my  turn!"  and 
lifted  the  match  machine  to  a  high  shelf  behind  her.  But 
Mr.  Wrenn  went  out  of  the  restaurant  with  his  old 
friend,  the  fat  man,  saying  to  him  quite  as  would  a  wit, 
"I  guess  we  get  stung,  eh?" 

"Yuh!"  gurgled  the  fat  man. 

" Walking  down  to  your  store?" 

"Yuh — sure — won't  you  walk  down  a  piece?" 

"Yes,  I  would  like  to.     Which  way  is  it?" 

"Fourth  Avenue  and  Twenty-eighth." 

"Walk  down  with  you." 

"Fine!" 

And  the  fat  man  seemed  to  mean  it.  He  confided  to 
Mr.  Wrenn  that  the  fishing  was  something  elegant  at 
Trulen,  New  Jersey;  that  he  wTas  some  punkins  at  the 
casting  of  flies  in  fishing;  that  he  wished  exceedingly 
to  be  at  Trulen  fishing  with  flies,  but  was  prevented  by 
the  manager  of  the  cigar-store;  that  the  manager  was  an 
old  devil;  that  his  (the  fat  man's  own)  name  was  Tom 
Poppins;  that  the  store  had  a  slick  new  brand  of  Manila 
cigars,  kept  in  a  swell  new  humidor  bought  upon  the 
advice  of  himself  (Mr.  Poppins);  that  one  of  the  young 

172 


HE    IS    "OUR    MR.    WRENN' 

clerks  in  the  store  had  done  fine  in  the  Modified  Marathon; 
that  the  Cubs  had  had  a  great  team  this  year;  that  he'd 
be  glad  to  give  Mr.  —  Mr.  Wrenn,  eh? — one  of  those 
Manila  cigars — great  cigars  they  were,  too;  and  that  he 
hadn't  "laughed  so  much  for  a  month  of  Sundays  as  he  had 
over  the  way  they  stung  Miggleton's  on  them  matches." 

All  this  in  the  easy,  affectionate,  slightly  wistful  manner 
of  fat  men.  Mr.  Poppins's  large  round  friendly  childish 
eyes  were  never  sarcastic.  He  was  the  man  who  makes  of 
a  crowd  in  the  Pullman  smoking-room  old  friends  in  half 
an  hour.  In  turn,  Mr.  Wrenn  did  not  shy  off;  he  hinted 
at  most  of  his  lifelong  ambitions  and  a  fair  number  of  his 
sorrows  and,  when  they  reached  the  store,  not  only  calmly 
accepted,  but  even  sneezingly  ignited  one  of  the  "  slick 
new  Manila  cigars." 

As  he  left  the  store  he  knew  that  the  golden  age  had 
begun.  He  had  a  friend! 

He  was  to  see  Tom  Poppins  the  coming  Thursday  at 
Miggleton's.  And  now  he  was  going  to  find  Morton! 
He  laughed  so  loudly  that  the  policeman  at  Thirty-fourth 
Street  looked  self-conscious  and  felt  secretively  to  find  out 
what  was  the  matter  with  his  uniform.  Now,  this  evening, 
he'd  try  to  get  on  the  track  of  Morton.  Well,  perhaps 
not  this  evening — the  Pennsylvania  offices  wouldn't  be 
open,  but  some  time  this  week,  anyway. 

Two  nights  later,  as  he  waited  for  Tom  Poppins  at 
Miggleton's,  he  lashed  himself  with  the  thought  that  he 
had  not  started  to  find  Morton;  good  old  Morton  of  the 
cattle-boat.  But  that  was  forgotten  in  the  wonder  of 
Tom  Poppins's  account  of  Mrs.  Arty's,  a  boarding-house 
"where  all  the  folks  likes  each  other." 

"You've  never  fed  at  a  boarding-house,  eh?"  said  Tom. 
"Well,  I  guess  most  of  'em  are  pretty  poor  feed.  And 
pretty  sad  bunch.  But  Mrs.  Arty's  is  about  as  near  like 
home  as  most  of  us  poor  bachelors  ever  gets.  Nice  crowd 
there.  If  Mrs.  Arty — Mrs.  R.  T.  Ferrard  is  her  name, 
but  we  always  call  her  Mrs.  Arty — if  she  don't  take  to  you 

173 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

she  don't  mind  letting  you  know  she  won't  take  you  in 
at  all;  but  if  she  does  she'll  worry  over  the  holes  in  your 
socks  as  if  they  was  her  husband's.  All  the  bunch  there 
drop  into  the  parlor  when  they  come  in,  pretty  near  any 
time — clear  up  till  twelve-thirty,  and  talk  and  laugh  and 
rush  the  growler  and  play  Five  Hundred.  Just  like 
home! 

"Mrs.  Arty's  nearly  as  fat  as  I  am,  but  she  can  be 
pretty  spry  if  there's  something  she  can  do  for  you. 
Nice  crowd  there,  too — except  that  Teddem — he's  one  of 
these  here  Willy-boy  actors,  always  out  of  work;  I  guess 
Mrs.  Arty  is  kind  of  sorry  for  him.  Say,  Wrenn — you 
seem  to  me  like  a  good  fellow — why  don't  you  get  ac 
quainted  with  the  bunch?  Maybe  you'd  like  to  move  up 
there  some  time.  You  was  telling  me  about  what  a 
cranky  old  party  your  landlady  is.  Anyway,  come  on 
up  there  to  dinner.  On  me.  Got  anything  on  for  next 
Monday  evening?" 

"N-no." 

"Come  on  up  then East  Thirtieth." 

"Gee,  I'd  like  to!" 

"Well,  why  don't  you,  then?  Get  there  about  six. 
Ask  for  me.  Monday.  Monday,  Wednesday,  and  Friday 
I  don't  have  to  get  to  the  store  evenings.  Come  on;  you'll 
find  out  if  you  like  the  place." 

"By  jiminy,  I  will!"  Mr.  Wrenn  slapped  the  table, 
socially. 

At  last  he  was  "through,  just  through  with  loafing 
around  and  not  getting  acquainted,"  he  told  himself.  He 
was  tired  of  Zapps.  There  was  nothing  to  Zapps.  He 
would  go  up  to  Mrs.  Arty's  and  now — he  was  going  to  find 
Morton.  Next  morning,  marveling  at  himself  for  not 
having  done  this  easy  task  before,  he  telephoned  to  the 
Pennsylvania  Railroad  offices,  asked  for  Morton,  and  in 
one-half  minute  heard: 

"Yes?     This  is  Harry  Morton." 

174 


HE    IS    "OUR    MR.    WRENN' 

"Hullo,  Mr.  Morton!  I'll  just  bet  you  can't  guess  who 
this  is." 

"I  guess  you've  got  me." 

"Well,  who  do  you  think  it " 

"Jack?" 

"Hunka." 

"Uncle  Henry?" 

"Nope."  Mr.  Wrenn  felt  lonely  at  finding  himself  so 
completely  outside  Morton's  own  world  that  he  was  not 
thought  of.  He  hastened  to  claim  a  part  in  that  world: 

"Say,  Mr.  Morton,  I  wonder  if  you've  ever  heard  of  a 
cattle-boat  called  the  Mtrian?" 

"I-         Say!     Is  this  Bill  Wrenn?" 

"Yes." 

"Well, well, well!  Whereareyou?  When'dyou get  back?" 

"Oh,  I  been  back  quite  a  little  while,  Morty.  Tried  to 
get  hold  of  you — almost  called  up  couple  of  times.  I'm  in 
my  office — Souvenir  Company — now.  Back  on  the  old 
job.  Say,  I'd  like  to  see  you." 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  see  you,  old  Bill!" 

"Got  a  date  for  dinner  this  evening,  Morty?" 

"N-no.     No,  I  don't  think  I've  got  anything  on." 

Morton's  voice  seemed  to  sound  a  doubt.  Mr.  Wrenn 
reflected  that  Morton  must  be  a  society  person;  and  he 
made  his  invitation  highly  polite: 

"Well,  say,  old  man,  I'd  be  awful  happy  if  you  could 
come  over  and  feed  on  me.  Can't  you  come  over  and  meet 
me,  Morty?" 

"Y-yes,  I  guess  I  can.  Yes,  I'll  do  it.  Where '11  I 
meet  you?" 

"How  about  Twenty-eighth  and  Sixth  Avenue?" 

"That'll  be  all  right,  Bill.     'Bout  six  o'clock?" 

"Fine!     Be  awful  nice  to  see  you  again,  old  Morty." 

"Same  here.     Goo'-by." 

Gazing  across  the  table  at  Miggleton's,  Mr.  Wrenn  saw, 
in  the  squat  familiar  body  and  sturdy  face  of  Morton  of 

175 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

the  cattle  -  boat,  a  stranger,  slightly  uneasy  and  very 
quiet,  wearing  garments  that  had  nothing  whatever  to  do 
with  the  cattle-boats — a  crimson  scarf  with  a  horseshoe- 
pin  of  "Brazilian  diamonds,"  and  sleek  brown  ready-made 
clothes  with  ornately  curved  cuffs  and  pocket  flaps. 

Morton  would  say  nothing  of  his  wanderings  after  their 
parting  in  Liverpool  beyond :  "Oh,  I  just  bummed  around. 
Places.  .  .  .  Warm  to-night.  For  this  time  of  year." 
Thrice  he  explained,  "I  was  kind  of  afraid  you'd  be  sore  at 
me  for  the  way  I  left  you;  that's  why  I've  never  looked 
you  up."  Thrice  Mr.  Wrenn  declared  that  he  had  not 
been  "sore,"  then  ceased  trying  to  make  himself  under 
stood. 

Their  talk  wilted.  Both  of  them  played  with  their 
knives  a  good  deal.  Morton  built  a  set  of  triangles  out  of 
toothpicks  while  pretending  to  give  hushed  attention  to 
the  pianist's  rendition  of  "Mammy's  Little  Cootsie  Bootsie 
Coon,"  while  Mr.  Wrenn  stared  out  of  the  window  as 
though  he  expected  to  see  the  building  across  get  afire 
immediately.  When  either  of  them  invented  something 
to  say  they  started  chattering  with  guilty  haste,  and  each 
agreed  hectically  with  any  opinion  the  other  advanced. 

Mr.  Wrenn  surprised  himself  in  the  thought  that 
Morton  hadn't  anything  very  new  to  say,  which  made 
him  feel  so  disloyal  that  he  burst  out,  effusively: 

"Say,  come  on  now,  old  man;  I  just  got  to  hear  about 
what  you  did  after  you  left  Liverpool." 

((  T » 

"Well " 

"I  never  got  out  of  Liverpool!  Worked  in  a  restaurant. 

.  .  .  But  next  time !  I'll  go  clean  to  Constantinople!" 

Morton  exploded.  "And  I  did  see  a  lot  of  English  life  in 
Liverpool." 

Mr.  Wrenn  talked  long  and  rapidly  of  the  world's  base 
ball  series,  and  Regal  vs.  Walkover  shoes. 

He  tried  to  think  of  something  they  could  do.  Sud 
denly: 


HE    IS    "OUR    MR.    WRENN' 

"Say,  Morty,  I  know  an  awful  nice  guy  down  here  in  a 
cigar-store.  Let's  go  down  and  see  him." 

"All  right." 

Tom  Poppins  was  very  cordial  to  them.  He  dragged 
brown  canvas  stools  out  of  the  tobacco-scented  room 
where  cigars  were  made,  and  the  three  of  them  squatted 
in  the  back  of  the  store,  while  Tom  gossiped  of  the  Juarez 
races,  Taft,  cigar-wrappers,  and  Jews.  Mortonwas  aroused 
to  tell  the  time-mellowed  story  of  the  judge  and  the  darky. 
He  was  cheerful  and  laughed  much  and  frequently  said 
"Ah  there,  cull!"  in  general  commendation.  But  he  kept 
looking  at  the  clock  on  the  jog  in  the  wall  over  the  water- 
cooler.  Just  at  ten  he  rose  abashedly,  hesitated,  and 
murmured,  "Well,  I  guess  I'll  have  to  be  beating  it  home." 

From  Mr.  Wrenn:    "Oh,  Morty!     So  early?" 

Tom:   "What's  the  big  hurry?" 

"I've  got  to  run  clear  over  to  Jersey  City."  Morton 
was  cordial,  but  not  convincing. 

"Say — uh — Morton,"  said  Tom,  kindly  of  face,  his 
bald  head  shining  behind  his  twin  bangs,  as  he  rose, 
"I'm  going  to  have  Wrenn  up  to  dinner  at  my  boarding- 
house  next  Monday.  Like  to  have  you  come  along.  It's 
a  fine  place — Mrs.  Arty — she's  the  landlady — she's  a 
wonder.  There's  going  to  be  a  vacant  room  there — maybe 
you  two  fellows  could  frame  it  up  to  take  it,  heh?  Un 
derstand,  I  don't  get  no  rake-off  on  this,  but  we  all  like  to 
do  what  we  can  for  M " 

"No,  no!"  said  Morton.  "Sorry.  Couldn't  do  it. 
Staying  with  my  brother-in-law — costs  me  only  'bout  half 

as  much  as  it  would I  don't  do  much  chasing  around 

when  I'm  in  town.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  save  up  enough  money 
for  a  good  long  hike.  I'm  going  clean  to  St.  Petersburg! 
.  .  .  But  I've  had  a  good  time  to-night." 

"Glad.  Great  stuff  about  you  fellows  on  the  cattle- 
ship,"  said  Tom. 

Morton  hastened  on,  protectively,  a  bit  critically: 
"You  fellows  sport  around  a  good  deal,  don't  you?  .  .  . 

177 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

I  can't  afford  to.  ...  Well,  good  night.  Glad  to  met  you, 
Mr.  Poppins.  G'  night,  old  Wr— 

"Going  to  the  ferry?  For  Jersey?  I'll  walk  over  with 
you/'  said  Mr.  Wrenn. 

Their  walk  was  quiet  and,  for  Mr.  Wrenn,  tragically  sad. 
He  saw  Morton  (presumably)  doing  the  wandering  he  had 
once  planned.  He  felt  that,  while  making  his  vast  new 
circle  of  friends,  he  was  losing  all  the  wild  adventurousness 
of  Bill  Wrenn.  And  he  was  parting  with  his  first  friend. 

At  the  ferry-house  Morton  pronounced  his  "Well,  so 
long,  old  fellow"  with  an  affection  that  meant  finality. 

Mr.  Wrenn  fled  back  to  Tom  Poppins's  store.  On  the 
way  he  was  shocked  to  find  himself  relieved  at  having 
parted  with  Morton.  The  cigar-store  was  closed. 

At  home  Mrs.  Zapp  waylaid  him  for  his  rent  (a  day 
overdue),  and  he  was  very  curt.  That  was  to  keep  back  the 
"O  God,  how  rotten  I  feel!"  with  which,  in  his  room,  he 
voiced  the  desolation  of  loneliness. 

The  ghost  of  Morton,  dead  and  forgotten,  was  with 
him  all  next  day,  till  he  got  home  and  unbelievably  found 
on  the  staid  black-walnut  Zapp  hat-rack  a  letter  from 
Paris,  in  a  gray  foreign-appearing  envelope  wTith  Istra's 
intensely  black  scrawl  on  it. 

He  put  off  the  luxury  of  opening  the  letter  till  after  the 
rites  of  brushing  his  teeth,  putting  on  his  slippers,  pound 
ing  his  rocking-chair  cushion  into  softness.  Panting  with 
the  joy  to  come,  he  stared  out  of  the  window  at  a  giant 
and  glorious  figure  of  Istra — the  laughing  Istra  of  break 
fast  camp-fire — which  towered  from  the  street  below. 
He  sighed  joyously  and  read : 

Mouse  dear,  just  a  word  to  let  you  know  I  haven't  forgotten 
you  and  am  very  glad  indeed  to  get  your  letters.  Not  much  to 
write  about.  Frightfully  busy  with  work  and  fool  parties. 
You  are  a  dear  good  soul  and  I  hope  you'll  keep  on  writing  me. 
In  haste,  I.  N. 

Longer  letter  next  time. 

He  came  to  the  end  so  soon.     Istra  was  gone  again. 


XIV 

HE    ENTERS    SOCIETY 

ENGLAND,  in  all  its  Istra-ness,  scarce  gave  Mr. 
Wrenn  a  better  thrill  for  his  collection  than  the  thrill  he 
received  on  the  November  evening  when  he  saw  the  white 
doorway  of  Mrs.  R.  T.  Ferrard,  in  a  decorous  row  of 
houses  on  Thirtieth  Street  near  Lexington  Avenue. 

It  is  a  block  where  the  citizens  have  civic  pride.  A 
newspaper  has  not  the  least  chance  of  lying  about  on  the 
asphalt — some  householder  with  a  frequently  barbered 
mustache  will  indignantly  pounce  upo'n  it  inside  of  an  hour. 
No  awe  is  caused  by  the  sight  of  vestibules  floored  with 
marble  in  alternate  black  and  white  tiles,  scrubbed  not 
by  landladies,  but  by  maids.  There  are  dotted  Swiss 
curtains  at  the  basement  windows  and  Irish  point  curtains 
on  the  first  floors.  There  are  two  polished  brass  door- 
plates  in  a  stretch  of  less  than  eight  houses.  Distinctly, 
it  is  not  a  quarter  where  children  fill  the  street  with 
shouting  and  little  sticks. 

Occasionally  a  taxicab  drives  up  to  some  door  without 
a  crowd  of  small  boys  gathering;  and  young  men  in  even 
ing  clothes  are  not  infrequently  seen  to  take  out  young 
ladies  wearing  tight-fitting  gowns  of  black,  and  light 
scarfs  over  their  heads.  A  Middle  Western  college 
fraternity  has  a  club-house  in  the  block,  and  four  of  the 
houses  are  private — one  of  them  belonging  to  a  police 
inspector  and  one  to  a  school  principal  who  wears  spats. 

It  is  a  block  that  is  satisfied  with  itself;  as  different 
from  the  Zapp  district,  where  landladies  in  gingham  run 

179 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

out  to  squabble  with  berry-venders,  as  the  Zapp  district 
is  from  the  Ghetto. 

Mrs.  Arty  Ferrard's  house  is  a  poor  relation  to  most 
of  the  residences  there.  The  black  areaway  rail  is  broken, 
and  the  basement-door  grill  is  rusty.  But  at  the  windows 
are  red-and-white-figured  chintz  curtains,  with  a  $2.98 
bisque  figurine  of  an  unclothed  lady  between  them;  the 
door  is  of  spotless  white,  with  a  bell-pull  of  polished  brass. 

Mr.  Wrenn  yanked  this  bell-pull  with  an  urbane 
briskness  which,  he  hoped,  would  conceal  his  nervousness 
and  delight  in  dining  out.  For  he  was  one  of  the  lonely 
men  in  New  York.  He  had  dined  out  four  times  in 
eight  years. 

The  woman  of  thirty-five  or  thirty-eight  who  opened 
the  door  to  him  was  very  fat,  two-thirds  as  fat  as  Mrs. 
Zapp,  but  she  had  young  eyes.  Her  mouth  was  small, 
arched,  and  quivering  in  a  grin. 

"This  is  Mr.  Wrenn,  isn't  it?"  she  gurgled,  and  leaned 
against  the  doorpost,  merry,  apparently  indolent.  ''I'm 
Mrs.  Ferrard.  Mr.  Poppins  told  me  you  were  coming, 
and  he  said  you  were  a  terribly  nice  man,  and  I  was  to  be 
sure  and  welcome  you.  Come  right  in." 

Her  indolence  turned  to  energy  as  she  charged  down 
the  hall  to  the  large  double  door  on  the  right  and  threw  it 
open,  revealing  to  him  a  scene  of  splendor  and  revelry  by 
night. 

Several  persons  [they  seemed  dozens,  in  their  liveliness] 
were  singing  and  shouting  to  piano  music,  in  the  midst  of 
a  general  redness  and  brightness  of  furnishings — red  paper 
and  worn  red  carpet  and  a  high  ceiling  with  circular  mold 
ings  tinted  in  pink.  Hand-painted  pictures  of  old  mills 
and  ladies  brooding  over  salmon  sunsets,  and  an  especially 
hand-painted  Christmas  scene  with  snow  of  inlaid  mother- 
of-pearl,  animated  the  walls.  On  a  golden-oak  center- 
table  was  a  large  lamp  with  a  mosaic  shade,  and  through 
its  mingled  bits  of  green  and  red  and  pearl  glass  stormed 
the  brilliance  of  a  mantle-light. 

1 80 


HE    ENTERS    SOCIETY 

The  room  was  crowded  with  tufted  plush  and  imitation- 
leather  chairs,  side-tables  and  corner  brackets,  a  couch 
and  a  "  lady's  desk."  Green  and  red  and  yellow  vases 
adorned  with  figures  of  youthful  lovers  crammed  the  top 
of  the  piano  at  the  farther  end  of  the  room  and  the 
polished  black-marble  mantel  of  the  fireplace.  The 
glaring  gas  raced  the  hearth-fire  for  snap  and  glare  and 
excitement.  The  profusion  of  furniture  was  like  a  tu 
mult;  the  redness  and  oakness  and  polishedness  of 
furniture  was  a  dizzying  activity;  and  it  was  all  over 
whelmingly  magnified  by  the  laughter  and  singing  about 
the  piano. 

Tom  Poppins  lumbered  up  from  a  couch  of  terrifically 
new  and  red  leather,  and  Mr.  Wrenn  was  introduced  to  the 
five  new  people  in  the  room  with  dismaying  swiftness. 
There  seemed  to  be  fifty  times  five  unapproachable  and 
magnificent  strangers  from  whom  he  wanted  to  flee. 
Of  them  all  he  was  sure  of  only  two — a  Miss  Nelly 
somebody  and  what  sounded  like  Horatio  Hood  Tem 
(Teddem  it  was). 

He  wished  that  he  had  caught  Miss  Nelly's  last  name 
(which,  at  dinner,  proved  to  be  Croubel),  for  he  was 
instantly  taken  by  her  sweetness  as  she  smiled,  held  out 
a  well-shaped  hand,  and  said,  "So  pleased  meet  you, 
Mr.  Wrenn." 

She  returned  to  the  front  of  the  room  and  went  on 
talking  to  a  lank  spinster  about  ruchings,  but  Mr.  Wrenn 
felt  that  he  had  known  her  long  and  as  intimately  as  it 
was  possible  to  know  so  clever  a  young  woman. 

Nelly  Croubel  gave  him  the  impression  of  a  delicate 
prettiness,  a  superior  sort  of  prettiness,  like  that  of  the 
daughter  of  the  Big  White  House  on  the  Hill,  the  Squire's 
house,  at  Parthenon;  though  Nelly  was  not  unusually 
pretty.  Indeed,  her  mouth  was  too  large,  her  hair  of 
somewhat  ordinary  brown.  But  her  face  was  always 
changing  with  emotions  of  kindliness  and  life.  Her  skin 
was  perfect;  her  features  fine,  rather  Greek;  her  smile, 
13  181 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

quick  yet  sensitive.  She  was  several  inches  shorter 
than  Mr.  Wrenn,  and  all  curves.  Her  blouse  of  white 
silk  lay  tenderly  along  the  adorably  smooth  softness  of 
her  young  shoulders.  A  smart  patent-leather  belt  en 
circled  her  sleek  waist.  Thin  black  lisle  stockings  showed 
a  modestly  arched  and  rather  small  foot  in  a  black  pump. 

She  looked  as  though  she  were  trained  for  business; 
awake,  self-reliant,  self-respecting,  expecting  to  have  to 
get  things  done,  all  done,  yet  she  seemed  indestructibly 
gentle,  indestructibly  good  and  believing,  and  just  a  bit 
shy. 

Nelly  Croubel  was  twenty-four  or  twenty-five  in  years, 
older  in  business,  and  far  younger  in  love.  She  was  born 
in  Upton's  Grove,  Pennsylvania.  There,  for  eighteen 
years,  she  had  played  Skip  to  Malue  at  parties,  hid  away 
the  notes  with  which  the  boys  invited  her  to  picnics  at 
Baptist  Beach,  read  much  Walter  Scott,  and  occasionally 
taught  Sunday-school.  Her  parents  died  when  she  was 
beginning  her  fourth  year  in  high  school,  and  she  came 
to  New  York  to  work  in  Wanamacy's  toy  department  at 
six  dollars  a  week  during  the  holiday  rush.  Her  patience 
with  fussy  old  shoppers  and  her  large  sales-totals  had 
gained  her  a  permanent  place  in  the  store. 

She  had  loftily  climbed  to  the  position  of  second 
assistant  buyer  in  the  lingerie  department,  at  fourteen 
dollars  and  eighty  cents  a  week  That  was  quite  all  of  her 
history  except  that  she  attended  a  Presbyterian  church 
nearly  every  Sunday.  The  only  person  she  hated  was 
Horatio  Hood  Teddem,  the  cheap  actor  who  was  playing 
the  piano  at  Mr.  Wrenn's  entrance. 

Just  now  Horatio  was  playing  ragtime  with  amazing 
rapidity,  stamping  his  foot  and  turning  his  head  to  smirk 
at  the  others. 

Mrs.  Arty  led  her  chattering  flock  to  the  basement 
dining-room,  which  had  pink  wall-paper  and  a  mountain 
ous  sideboard.  Mr.  Wrenn  was  placed  between  Mrs. 
Arty  and  Nelly  Croubel.  Out  of  the  mist  of  strangeness 

182 


HE   ENTERS    SOCIETY 

presently  emerged  the  personality  of  Miss  Mary  Proud- 
foot,  a  lively  but  religious  spinster  of  forty  who  made 
doilies  for  the  Dorcas  Women's  Exchange  and  had  two  hun 
dred  dollars  a  year  family  income.  To  the  right  of  the  red- 
glass  pickle-dish  were  the  elderly  Ebbitts — Samuel  Ebbitt, 
Esq.,  also  Mrs.  Ebbitt.  Mr.  Ebbitt  had  come  from 
Hartford  five  years  before,  but  he  always  seemed  just  to 
have  come  from  there.  He  was  in  a  real-estate  office; 
he  was  gray,  ill-tempered,  impatiently  honest,  and  ad 
dicted  to  rheumatism  and  the  newspapers.  Mrs.  Ebbitt 
was  addicted  only  to  Mr.  Ebbitt. 

Across  the  table  was  felt  the  presence  of  James  T. 
Duncan,  who  looked  like  a  dignified  red-mustached 
Sunday-school  superintendent,  but  who  traveled  for  a 
cloak  and  suit  house,  gambled  heavily  on  poker  and 
auction  pinochle,  and  was  esteemed  for  his  straight  back 
and  knowledge  of  trains. 

Which  is  all  of  them. 

As  soon  as  Mrs.  Arty  had  guided  Annie,  the  bashful 
maid,  in  serving  the  vegetable  soup,  and  had  coaxed  her 
into  bringing  Mr.  Wrenn  a  napkin,  she  took  charge 
of  the  conversation,  a  luxury  which  she  would  never  have 
intrusted  to  her  flock's  amateurish  efforts.  Mr.  Poppins, 
said  she,  had  spoken  of  meeting  a  friend  of  Mr.  Wrenn's; 
Mr.  Morton,  was  it  not?  A  very  nice  man,  she  under 
stood.  Was  it  true  that  Mr.  Wrenn  and  Mr.  Morton  had 
gone  clear  across  the  Atlantic  on  a  cattle-boat?  It 
really  was  ? 

"Oh,  how  interesting!"  contributed  pretty  Nelly  Crou- 
bel,  beside  Mr.  Wrenn,  her  young  eyes  filled  with  an 
admiration  which  caused  him  palpitation  and  difficulty 
in  swallowing  his  soup.  He  was  confused  by  hearing  old 
Samuel  Ebbitt  state: 

"Uh-h-h-h — back  in  18 — uh — 1872  the  vessel  Prissie — 
no,  it  was  1873;  no>  it  must  have  been  '72— 

"It  was  1872,  father,"  said  Mrs.  Ebbitt. 

"1873.     I  was  on  a  coasting- vessel,  young  man.     But 

183 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

we  didn't  carry  cattle."  Mr.  Ebbitt  inspected  Horatio 
Hood  Teddem  darkly,  clicked  his  spectacle  case  sharply 
shut,  and  fell  to  eating,  as  though  he  had  settled  all  this 
nonsense. 

With  occasional  witty  interruptions  from  the  actor,  Mr. 
Wrenn  told  of  pitching  hay,  of  the  wit  of  Morton,  and  the 
wickedness  of  Satan,  the  boss. 

"But  you  haven't  told  us  about  the  brave  things  you 
did,"  cooed  Mrs.  Arty.  She  appealed  to  Nelly  Croubel: 
"I'll  bet  he  was  a  cool  one.  Don't  you  think  he  was, 
Nelly?" 

"I'm  sure  he  was."     Nelly's  voice  was  like  a  flute. 

Mr.  Wrenn  knew  that  there  was  just  one  thing  in  the 
world  that  he  wanted  to  do;  to  persuade  Miss  Nelly 
Croubel  that  (though  he  was  a  solid  business  man,  indeed 
yes,  and  honorable)  he  was  a  cool  one,  who  had  chosen, 
in  wandering  o'er  this  world  so  wide,  the  most  perilous 
and  cattle-boaty  places.  He  tried  to  think  of  something 
modest  yet  striking  to  say,  while  Tom  was  arguing  with 
Miss  Mary  Proudfoot,  the  respectable  spinster,  about  the 
ethics  of  giving  away  street-car  transfers. 

As  they  finished  their  floating  custard  Mr.  Wrenn 
achieved,  "Do  you  come  from  New  York,  Miss  Croubel?" 
and  listened  to  the  tale  of  sleighing-parties  in  Upton's 
Grove,  Pennsylvania.  He  was  absolutely  happy. 

"This  is  like  getting  home,"  he  thought.  "And  they're 
classy  folks  to  get  home  to — now  that  I  can  tell  'em  apart. 
Gee!  Miss  Croubel  is  a  peach.  And  brains — golly!" 

He  had  a  frightened  hope  that  after  dinner  he  would 
be  able  to  get  into  a  corner  and  talk  with  Nelly,  but  Tom 
Poppins  conferred  with  Horatio  Hood  Teddem  and  called 
Mr.  Wrenn  aside.  Teddem  had  been  acting  with  a  mov 
ing-picture  company  for  a  week,  and  had  three  passes  to 
the  celebrated  Waldorf  Photoplay  Theater. 

Mr.  Wrenn  had  bloodthirstily  disapproved  Horatio 
Hood's  effeminate  remarks,  such  as  "Tee  heel"  and  "Oh, 
you  naughty  man,"  but  when  he  heard  that  this  molly- 

184 


HE   ENTERS   SOCIETY 

coddle  had  shared  in  the  glory  of  making  moving  pictures 
he  went  proudly  forth  with  him  and  Tom.  He  had  no 
chance  to  speak  to  Mrs.  Arty  about  taking  the  room  to  be 
vacated. 

He  wished  that  Charley  Carpenter  or  the  Zapps  could 
see  him  sitting  right  beside  an  actor  who  was  shown  in  the 
pictures  miraculously  there  before  them,  asking  him  how 
they  made  movies,  just  as  friendly  as  though  they  had 
known  each  other  always. 

He  wanted  to  do  something  to  entertain  his  friends 
beyond  taking  them  out  for  a  drink.  He  invited  them 
down  to  his  room,  and  they  came. 

Teddem  was  in  wonderful  form;  he  mimicked  every  one 
they  saw  so  amiably  that  Tom  Poppins  knew  the  actor 
wanted  to  borrow  money.  The  party  were  lovingly  hum 
ming  the  popular  song  of  the  time — "Any  Little  Girl 
That's  a  Nice  Little  Girl  is  the  Right  Little  Girl  for  Me"— 
as  they  frisked  up  the  gloomy  steps  of  the  Zapps.  Enter 
ing,  Poppins  and  Teddem  struck  attitudes  on  the  inside 
stairs  and  sang  aloud. 

Mr.  Wrenn  felt  enormously  conscious  of  Mrs.  Zapp 
down  below.  He  kept  listening,  as  he  led  them  up-stairs 
and  lighted  the  gas.  But  Teddem  so  imitated  Colonel 
Roosevelt,  with  two  water-glasses  for  eye-glasses  and  a 
small  hat-brush  for  mustache,  that  Mr.  Wrenn  was  moved 
wrigglingly  to  exclaim:  "Say,  I'm  going  out  and  get  some 
beer.  Or 'd  you  rather  have  something  else?  Some 
cheese  sandwiches?  How  about  'em?" 

"Fine,"  said  Tom  and  Teddem  together. 

Not  only  did  Mr.  Wrenn  buy  a  large  newspaper- 
covered  bundle  of  bottles  of  beer  and  Swiss-cheese  sand 
wiches,  but  also  a  small  can  of  caviar  and  salty  crackers. 
In  his  room  he  spread  a  clean  towel,  then  two  clean 
towels,  on  the  bureau,  and  arrayed  the  feast,  with  two 
water-glasses  and  a  shaving-mug  for  cups. 

Horatio  Hood  Teddem,  spreading  caviar  on  a  sandwich, 
and  loudly  singing  his  masterpiece,  "Waal  I  swan," 

185 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

stopped  short  and  fixed  amazed  eyes  on  the  door  of  the 
room. 

Mr.  Wrenn  hastily  turned.  The  light  fell — as  on  a 
cliff  of  crumbly  gray  rock — on  Mrs.  Zapp,  in  the  open 
door,  vast  in  her  ungirdled  gray  wrapper,  her  arms  folded, 
glowering  speechlessly. 

"Mist*  Wrenn,"  she  began,  in  a  high  voice  that  prom 
ised  to  burst  into  passion. 

But  she  was  addressing  the  formidable  adventurer, 
Bill  Wrenn.  He  had  to  protect  his  friends.  He  sprang 
up  and  walked  across  to  her. 

He  said,  quietly,  "I  didn't  hear  you  knock,  Mrs.  Zapp." 

"Ah  didn't  knock,  and  Ah  want  you  should— 

"Then  please  do  knock,  unless  you  want  me  to  give 
notice." 

He  was  quivering.     His  voice  was  shrill. 

From  the  hall  below  Theresa  called  up,  "Ma,  come 
down  here.  Ma  /" 

But  Mrs.  Zapp  was  too  well  started.  "If  you  think 
Ah'm  going  to  stand  for  a  lazy  sneaking  little  drunkard 
keeping  the  whole  street  awake,  and  here  it  is  prett* 
nearly  midnight — 

Just  then  Mr.  William  Wrenn  saw  and  heard  the  most 
astounding  thing  of  his  life,  and  became  an  eternal  slave  to 
Tom  Poppins. 

Tom's  broad  face  became  hard,  his  voice  businesslike. 
He  shouted  at  Mrs.  Zapp: 

"Beat  it  or  I'll  run  you  in.  Trouble  with  you  is,  you 
old  hag,  you  don't  appreciate  a  nice  quiet  little  chap  like 
Wrenn,  and  you  try  to  bully  him — and  him  here  for  years. 
Get  out  or  I'll  put  you  out.  I'm  no  lamb,  and  I  won't 
stand  for  any  of  your  monkey-shines.  Get  out.  This 
ain't  your  room;  he's  rented  it — he's  paid  the  rent — it's 
his  room.  Get  out!" 

Kindly  Tom  Poppins  worked  in  a  cigar-store  and  was 
accustomed  to  talk  back  to  drunken  men  six  feet  tall. 
His  voice  was  tremendous,  and  he  was  fatly  immovable; 

186 


HE    ENTERS    SOCIETY 

he  didn't  a  bit  mind  the  fact  that  Mrs.  Zapp  was  still 
"glaring  speechless/' 

But  behold  an  ally  to  the  forlorn  lady.  When  Theresa, 
in  the  hall  below,  heard  Tom,  she  knew  that  Mr.  Wrenn 
would  room  here  no  more.  She  galloped  up-stairs  and 
screeched  over  her  mother's  shoulder: 

"You  will  pick  on  a  lady,  will  you,  you  drunken  scum 

— you — you  cads I'll  have  you  arrested  so  quick 

you ' 

"Look  here,  lady,"  said  Tom,  gently.  "I'm  a  plain- 
clothes  man,  a  detective."  His  large  voice  purred  like  a 
tiger-tabby's.  "I  don't  want  to  run  you  in,  but  I  will  if 
you  don't  get  out  of  here  and  shut  that  door.  Or  you 
might  go  down  and  call  the  cop  on  this  block.  He'll  run 
you  in — for  breaking  Code  2762  of  the  Penal  Law! 
Trespass  and  flotsam — that's  what  it  is!" 

Uneasy,  frightened,  then  horrified,  Mrs.  Zapp  swung 
bulkily  about  and  slammed  the  door. 

Sick,  guilty,  banished  from  home  though  he  felt,  Mr. 
Wrenn's  voice  quavered,  with  an  attempt  at  dignity: 

"I'm  awful  sorry  she  butted  in  while  you  fellows  was 
here.  I  don't  know  how  to  apologize 

"Forget  it,  old  man,"  rolled  out  Tom's  bass.  "Come 
on,  let's  go  up  to  Mrs.  Arty's." 

"But,  gee!  it's  nearly  a  quarter  to  eleven." 

"That's  all  right.  We  can  get  up  there  by  a  little 
after,  and  Mrs.  Arty  stays  up  playing  cards  till  after 
twelve." 

"Golly!"  Mr.  Wrenn  agitatedly  ejaculated  under  his 
breath,  as  they  noisily  entered  Mrs.  Arty's — though  not 
noisily  on  his  part. 

The  parlor  door  was  open.  Mrs.  Arty's  broad  back  was 
toward  them,  and  she  was  announcing  to  James  T.  Dun 
can  and  Miss  Proudfoot,  with  whom  she  was  playing  three- 
handed  Five  Hundred,  "Well,  I'll  just  bid  seven  on 
hearts  if  you're  going  to  get  so  set  up."  She  glanced  back, 

187 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

nodded,  said,  "Come  in,  children,"  picked  up  the  "widow," 
and  discarded  with  quick  twitches  of  the  cards.  The  fright 
ened  Mr.  Wrenn,  feeling  like  a  shipwrecked  land-lubber, 
compared  this  gaming  smoking  woman  unfavorably  with 
the  intense  respectability  of  his  dear  lost  patron,  Mrs. 
Zapp.  He  sat  uneasy  till  the  hand  of  cards  was  finished, 
feeling  as  though  they  were  only  tolerating  him.  And 
Nelly  Croubel  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

Suddenly  said  Mrs.  Arty,  "And  now  you  would  like  to 
look  at  that  room,  Mr.  Wrenn,  unless  I'm  wrong." 

"Why — uh — yes,  I  guess  I  would  like  to." 

"Come  with  me,  child,"  she  said,  in  pretended  seventy. 
"Tom,  you  take  my  hand  in  the  game,  and  don't  let  me 
hear  you've  been  bidding  ten  on  no  suit  without  the 
joker."  She  led  Mr.  Wrenn  to  the  settee  hat-rack  in  the 
hall.  "The  third-floor-back  will  be  vacant  in  two  weeks, 
Mr.  Wrenn.  We  can  go  up  and  look  at  it  now  if  you'd 
like  to.  The  man  who  has  it  now  works  nights — he's 
some  kind  of  a  head  waiter  at  Rector's,  or  something  like 
that,  and  he's  out  till  three  or  four.  Come." 

When  he  saw  that  third-floor-back,  the  room  that  the 
smart  people  at  Mrs.  Arty's  were  really  willing  to  let  him 
have,  he  felt  like  a  man  just  engaged.  It  was  all  in  soft 
green — grass-green  matting,  pale-green  walls,  chairs  of 
white  wicker  with  green  cushions;  the  bed,  a  couch  with 
a  denim  cover  and  four  sofa  pillows.  It  gave  him  the  im 
pression  of  being  a  guest  on  Fifth  Avenue. 

"It's  kind  of  a  plain  room,"  Mrs.  Arty  said,  doubtfully. 
"The  furniture  is  kind  of  plain.  But  my  head-waiter 
man — it  was  furnished  for  a  friend  of  his — he  says  he 
likes  it  better  than  any  other  room  in  the  house.  It  is 
comfortable,  and  you  get  lots  of  sunlight  and — 

"I'll  take—         How  much  is  it,  please,  with  board?" 

She  spoke  with  a  take-it-or-leave-it  defiance.  "Eleven- 
fifty  a  week." 

It  was  a  terrible  extravagance;  much  like  marrying  a 
sick  woman  on  a  salary  of  ten  a  week,  he  reflected;  nine- 

188 


HE   ENTERS   SOCIETY 

teen  minus  eleven-fifty  left  him  only  seven-fifty  for  clothes 
and  savings  and  things  and — but —  "I'll  take  it,"  he 
said,  hastily.  He  was  frightened  at  himself,  but  glad, 
very  glad.  He  was  to  live  in  this  heaven;  he  was  going  to 

be  away  from  that  Zapp  woman;  and  Nelly  Croubel 

Was  she  engaged  to  some  man?  he  wondered. 

Mrs.  Arty  was  saying:  "First,  I  want  to  ask  you  some 
questions,  though.  Please  sit  down."  As  she  creaked 
into  one  of  the  wicker  chairs  she  suddenly  changed  from 
the  cigarette-rolling  chaffing  card-player  to  a  woman 
dignified,  reserved,  commanding.  "Mr.  Wrenn,  you  see, 
Miss  Proudfoot  and  Miss  Croubel  are  on  this  floor.  Miss 
Proudfoot  can  take  care  of  herself,  all  right,  but  Nelly  is 

such  a  trusting  little  thing She's  like  my  daughter. 

She's  the  only  one  I've  ever  given  a  reduced  rate  to — and 
I  swore  I  never  would  to  anybody!  .  .  .  Do  you — uh — 
drink — drink  much,  I  mean?" 

Nelly  on  this  floor!  Near  him!  Now!  He  had  to 
have  this  room.  He  forced  himself  to  speak  directly. 

"I  know  how  you  mean,  Mrs.  Ferrard.  No,  I  don't 
drink  much  of  any — hardly  at  all;  just  a  glass  of  beer 
now  and  then;  sometimes  I  don't  even  touch  that  a  week 
at  a  time.  And  I  don't  gamble  and — and  I  do  try  to 
keep — er — straight — and  all  that  sort  of  thing." 

"That's  good." 

"I  work  for  the  Souvenir  and  Art  Novelty  Company 
on  Twenty-eighth  Street.  If  you  want  to  call  them  up  I 
guess  the  manager  '11  give  me  a  pretty  good  recommend." 

"I  don't  believe  I'll  need  it,  Mr.  Wrenn.  It's  my 
business  to  find  out  wrhat  sort  of  animiles  men  are  by  just 
talking  to  them."  She  rose,  smiled,  plumped  out  her 
hand.  "You  will  be  nice  to  Nelly,  wont  you!  I'm  going 
to  fire  that  Teddem  out — don't  tell  him,  but  I  am — be 
cause  he  gets  too  fresh  with  her." 

"Yes!" 

She  suddenly  broke  into  laughter,  and  ejaculated: 
"Say,  that  was  hard  work!  Don't  you  hate  to  have  to  be 

189 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

serious?  Let's  trot  down,  and  I'll  make  Tom  or  Duncan 
rush  us  a  growler  of  beer  to  welcome  you  to  our  midst.  .  .  . 
I'll  bet  your  socks  aren't  darned  properly.  I'm  going  to 
sneak  in  and  take  a  look  at  them,  once  I  get  you  caged  up 
here.  .  .  .  But  I  won't  read  your  love-letters!  Now  let's 
go  down  by  the  fire,  where  it's  comfy." 


XV 

HE    STUDIES    FIVE    HUNDRED,  SAVOIR    FAIRE,  AND    LOTSA- 
SNAP   OFFICE    MOTTOES 

ON  a  couch  of  glossy  red  leather  with  glossy  black 
buttons  and  stiff  fringes  also  of  glossy  red  leather, 
Mr.  William  Wrenn  sat  upright  and  was  very  confiding 
to  Miss  Nelly  Croubel,  who  was  curled  among  the  satin 
pillows  with  her  skirts  drawn  carefully  about  her  ankles. 
He  had  been  at  Mrs.  Arty's  for  two  weeks  now.  He  wore 
a  new  light-blue  tie,  and  his  trousers  were  pressed  like 
sheet  steel. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  you're  engaged  to  some  one,  Miss 
Nelly,  and  you'll  go  off  and  leave  us — go  off  to  that  blamed 
Upton's  Grove  or  some  place." 

"I  am  not  engaged.  I've  told  you  so.  Who  would 
want  to  marry  me?  You  stop  teasing  me — you're  mean 
as  can  be;  I'll  just  have  to  get  Tom  to  protect  me!" 

"Course  you're  engaged." 

"Ain't." 

"Are." 

"Ain't.     Who  would  want  to  marry  poor  little  me?" 

"Why,  anybody,  of  course." 

"You  stop  teasing  me.  .  .  .  Besides,  probably  you're  in 
love  with  twenty  girls." 

"I  am  not.  Why,  I've  never  hardly  known  but  just 
two  girls  in  my  life.  One  was  just  a  girl  I  went  to  theaters 
with  once  or  twice — she  was  the  daughter  of  the  land 
lady  I  used  to  have  before  I  came  here." 

"If  you  don't  make  love  to  the  .landlady's  daughter 
You  won't  get  a  second  piece  of  pie!" 

quoted  Nelly,  out  of  the  treasure-house  of  literature. 

191 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

"Sure.     That's  it.     But  I  bet  you " 

"  Who  was  the  other  girl  ?" 

"Oh!  She.  .  .  .  She  was  a — an  artist.  I  liked  her — a 

lot.  But  she  was — oh,  awful  highbrow.  Gee!  if 

But- 

A  sympathetic  silence,  which  Nelly  broke  with: 

"Yes,  they're  funny  people.  Artists.  .  .  .  Do  you 
have  your  lesson  in  Five  Hundred  to-night?  Your  very 
first  one?" 

"I  think  so.  Say,  is  it  much  like  this  here  bridge- 
whist?  Oh  say,  Miss  Nelly,  why  do  they  call  it  Five 
Hundred?" 

"That's  what  you  have  to  make  to  go  out.  No,  I 
guess  it  isn't  very  much  like  bridge;  though,  to  tell  the 
truth,  I  haven't  ever  played  bridge.  My!  it  must  be  a 
nice  game,  though." 

"Oh,  I  thought  prob'ly  you  could  play  it.  You  can  do 
'most  everything.  Honest,  I've  never  seen  nothing  like 
it." 

"Now  you  stop,  Mr.  Wrenn.  I  know  I'm  a — what 
was  it  Mr.  Teddem  used  to  call  me?  A  minx.  But " 

"Miss  Nelly!     You  arent  a  minx !" 

"Well- 

"Or  a  mink,  either.     You're  a — let's  see — an  antelope." 

"I  am  not!  Even  if  I  can  wriggle  my  nose  like  a 
rabbit.  Besides,  it  sounds  like  a  muskmelon.  But,  any 
way,  the  head  buyer  said  I  was  crazy  to-day." 

"If  I  heard  him  say  you  were  crazy 

"Would  you  beat  him  for  me?"  She  cuddled  a  cushion 
and  smiled  gratefully.  Her  big  eyes  seemed  to  fill  with 
light. 

He  caught  himself  wanting  to  kiss  the  softness  of  her 
shoulder,  but  he  said  only,  "Well,  I  ain't  much  of  a 
scrapper,  but  I'd  try  to  make  it  interesting  for  him." 

"Tell  me,  did  you  ever  have  a  fight?  When  you  were  a 
boy?  Were  you  such  a  bad  boy?" 

"I  never  did  when  I  was  a  boy,  but — well — I  did  have  a 

192 


HE    STUDIES    FIVE    HUNDRED 

<:ouple  of  fights  when  I  was  on  the  cattle-boat  and  in 
England.  Neither  of  them  amounted  to  very  much, 
though,  I  guess.  I  was  scared  stiff!" 

"Don't  believe  it!" 

"Sure  I  was." 

"I  don't  believe  you'd  be  scared.     You're  too  earnest." 

"Me,  Miss  Nelly?     Why,  I'm  a  regular  cut-up." 

"You  stop  making  fun  of  yourself!  I  like  it  when 
you're  earnest — like  when  you  saw  that  beautiful  snow 
fall  last  night.  .  .  .  Oh  dear,  isn't  it  hard  to  have  to  miss 
so  many  beautiful  things  here  in  the  city — there's  just  the 
parks,  and  even  there  there  aren't  any  birds,  real  wild 
birds,  like  we  used  to  have  in  Pennsylvania." 

"Yes,  isn't  it!  Isn't  it  hard!"  Mr.  Wrenn  drew 
nearer  and  looked  sympathy. 

"I'm  afraid  I'm  getting  gushy.  Miss  Hartenstein — 
she's  in  my  department — she'd  laugh  at  me.  .  .  .  But  I  do 
love  birds  and  squirrels  and  pussy-willows  and  all  those 
things.  In  summer  I  love  to  go  on  picnics  on  Staten 
Island  or  tramp  in  Van  Cortlandt  Park." 

"Would  you  go  on  a  picnic  with  me  some  day  next 
spring?"  Hastily,  "I  mean  with  Miss  Proudfoot  and 
Mrs.  Arty  and  me?" 

"I  should  be  pleased  to."  She  was  prim  but  trusting 
about  it.  "Oh,  listen,  Mr.  Wrenn;  did  you  ever  tramp 
along  the  Palisades  as  far  as  Englewood?  It's  lovely 
there — the  woods  and  the  river  and  all  those  funny  little 
tugs  puffing  along,  way  way  down  below  you — why,  I 
could  lie  on  the  rocks  up  there  and  just  dream  and  dream 
for  hours.  After  I've  spent  Sunday  up  there" — she  was 
dreaming  now,  he  saw,  and  his  heart  was  passionately 
tender  toward  her — "I  don't  hardly  mind  a  bit  having  to 
go  back  to  the  store  Monday  morning.  .  .  .  You've  been  up 
along  there,  haven't  you?" 

"Me?  Why,  I  guess  I'm  the  guy  that  discovered  the 
Palisades! .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  won-derful  up  there!" 

"Oh,  you  are,  are  you?  I  read  about  that  in  American 

193 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

history!  .  .  .  But  honestly,  Mr.  Wrenn,  I  do  believe  you 
care  for  tramps  and  things — not  like  that  Teddem  or  Mr. 
Duncan — they  always  want  to  just  stay  in  town — or 
even  Tom,  though  he's  an  old  dear." 

Mr.  Wrenn  looked  jealous,  with  a  small  hot  jealousy. 
She  hastened  on  with:  "Of  course,  I  mean  he's  just  like  a 
big  brother.  To  all  of  us." 

It  was  sweet  to  both  of  them,  to  her  to  declare  and  to 
him  to  hear,  that  neither  Tom  nor  any  other  possessed  her 
heart.  Their  shy  glances  were  like  an  outreach  of  ten 
derly  touching  hands  as  she  confided,  "Mrs.  Arty  and  he 
get  up  picnics,  and  when  we're  out  on  the  Palisades  he 
says  to  me — you  know,  sometimes  he  almost  makes  me 
think  he  is  sleepy,  though  I  do  believe  he  just  sneaks  off 
under  a  tree  and  talks  to  Mrs.  Arty  or  reads  a  magazine — 
but  I  was  saying:  he  always  says  to  me,  'Well,  sister,  I 
suppose  you  want  to  mousey  round  and  dream  by  your 
self — you  won't  talk  to  a  growly  old  bear  like  me.  Well, 
I'm  glad  of  it.  I  want  to  sleep.  I  don't  want  to  be 
bothered  by  you  and  your  everlasting  chatter.  Get  out!' 
I  b'lieve  he  just  says  that  'cause  he  knows  I  wouldn't 
vvant  to  run  off  by  myself  if  they  didn't  think  it  was 
proper." 

As  he  heard  her  lively  effort  to  imitate  Tom's  bass- 
Mr.  Wrenn  laughed  and  pounded  his  knee  and  agreed: 
"Yes,  Tom's  an  awfully  fine  fellow,  isn't  he!  ...  I  love  to 
get  out  some  place  by  myself,  too.  I  like  to  wander 
round  places  and  make  up  the  doggondest  fool  little 
etories  to  myself  about  them;  just  as  bad  as  a  kiddy, 
that  way." 

"And  you  read  such  an  awful  lot,  Mr.  Wrenn!  My! 
Oh,  tell  me,  have  you  ever  read  anything  by  Harold  Bell 
Wright  or  Myrtle  Reed,  Mr.  Wrenn?  They  write  such 
Sweet  stories." 

He  had  not,  but  he  expressed  an  unconquerable  resolve 
so  to  do,  and  with  immediateness.  She  went  on: 

"Mrs.  Arty  told  me  you  had  a  real  big  library — nearly 

194 


HE    STUDIES    FIVE    HUNDRED 

a  hundred  books  and —  Do  you  mind  ?  I  went  in  your 
room  and  peeked  at  them." 

"No,  course  I  don't  mind !  If  there's  any  of  them  you'd 
like  to  borrow  any  time,  Miss  Nelly,  I  would  be  awful 
glad  to  lend  them  to  you.  .  .  .  But,  rats!  Why,  I  haven't 
got  hardly  any  books." 

"That's  why  you  haven't  wasted  any  time  learning 
Five  Hundred  and  things,  isn't  it?  Because  you've  been 
so  busy  reading  and  so  on?" 

"Yes,  kind  of."     Mr.  Wrenn  looked  modest. 

"Haven't  you  always  been  lots  of — oh,  haven't  you 
always  'magined  lots  ?" 

She  really  seemed  to  care. 

Mr.  Wrenn  felt  excitedly  sure  of  that,  and  imparted: 
"Yes,  I  guess  I  have.  .  .  .  And  I've  always  wanted  to 
travel  a  lot." 

"So  have  I!  Isn't  it  wonderful  to  go  around  and  see 
new  places!" 

"Yes,  isn't  it!"  he  breathed.  "It  was  great  to  be  in 
England — though  the  people  there  are  kind  of  chilly  some 
ways.  Even  when  I'm  on  a  wharf  here  in  New  York  I 
feel  just  like  I  was  off  in  China  or  somewheres.  I'd  like  to 
see  China.  And  India.  .  .  .  Gee!  when  I  hear  the  waves 
down  at  Coney  Island  or  some  place — you  know  how  the 
waves  sound  when  they  come  in.  Well,  sometimes  I 
almost  feel  like  they  was  talking  to  a  guy — you  know — 
telling  about  ships.  And,  oh  say,  you  know  the  white- 
caps — aren't  they  just  like  the  waves  was  motioning  at 
you — they  want  you  to  come  and  beat  it  with  you — over 
to  China  and  places." 

"Why,  Mr.  Wrenn,  you're  a  regular  poet!" 

He  looked  doubtful. 

"Honest;    I'm  not  teasing  you;   you  are  a  poet.     And 

I  think  it's  fine  that Mr.  Teddem  was  saying  that 

nobody  could  be  a  poet  or  like  that  unless  they  drank 
an  awful  lot  and — uh — oh,  not  be  honest  and  be  on  a  job. 
But  you  aren't  like  that.  Are  your" 

195 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

He  looked  self-conscious  and  mumbled,  earnestly,  "Well, 
I  try  not  to  be." 

"But  I  am  going  to  make  you  go  to  church.  You'll  be 
a  socialist  or  something  like  that  if  you  get  to  be  too  much 
of  a  poet  and  don't 

"Miss  Nelly,  please  may  I  go  to  church  with  you?" 

"Why- 

"Next  Sunday?" 

"Why,  yes,  I  should  be  pleased.  Are  you  a  Presby 
terian,  though?" 

"Why — uh — I  guess  I'm  kind  of  a  Congregationalist; 
but  still,  they're  all  so  much  alike." 

"Yes,  they  really  are.  And  besides,  what  does  it 
matter  if  we  all  believe  the  same  and  try  to  do  right; 
and  sometimes  that's  hard,  when  you're  poor,  and  it 
seems  like — like — 

"Seems  like  what?"  Mr.  Wrenn  insisted. 

"Oh — nothing.  .  .  .  My,  you'll  have  to  get  up  awful 
early  Sunday  morning  if  you'd  like  to  go  with  me.  My 
church  starts  at  ten-thirty." 

"Oh,  I'd  get  up  at  five  to  go  with  you." 

"Stupid!  Now  you're  just  trying  to  jolly  me;  you  are; 
because  you  men  aren't  as  fond  of  church  as  all  that,  I 
know  you  aren't.  You're  real  lazy  Sunday  mornings,  and 
just  want  to  sit  around  and  read  the  papers  and  leave  the 

poor  women But  please  tell  me  some  more  about 

your  reading  and  all  that." 

"Well,  I'll  be  all  ready  to  go  at  nine-thirty.  ...  I  don't 
know;  why,  I  haven't  done  much  reading.  But  I  would 
like  to  travel  and —  Say,  wouldn't  it  be  great  to — I 
suppose  I'm  sort  of  a  kid  about  it;  of  course,  a  guy  has  to 
tend  right  to  business,  but  it  would  be  great —  Say  a 
man  was  in  Europe  with — with — a  friend,  and  they  both 
knew  a  lot  of  history — -say,  they  both  knew  a  lot  about 
Guy  Fawkes  (he  was  the  guy  that  tried  to  blow  up  the 
English  Parliament),  and  then  when  they  were  there  in 
London  they  could  almost  think  they  saw  him,  and  they 

196 


HE    STUDIES    FIVE    HUNDRED 

could  go  round  together  and  look  at  Shelley's  window- 
he  was  a  poet  at  Oxford —  Oh,  it  would  be  great  with  a 
— with  a  friend." 

"Yes,  wouldn't  it?  ...  I  wanted  to  work  in  the  book 
department  one  time.  It's  so  nice  your  being — 

"Ready  for  Five  Hundred?"  bellowed  Tom  Poppins 
in  the  hall  below.  "Ready  partner — you,  Wrenn?" 

Tom  was  to  initiate  Mr.  Wrenn  into  the  game,  playing 
with  him  against  Mrs.  Arty  and  Miss  Mary  Proudfoot. 

Mrs.  Arty  sounded  the  occasion's  pitch  of  high  merri 
ment  by  delivering  from  the  doorway  the  sacred  old 
saying,  "Well,  the  ladies  against  the  men,  eh?" 

A  general  grunt  that  might  be  spelled  "Hmmmmhm" 
assented. 

"I'm  a  good  suffragette,"  she  added.  "Watch  us  squat 
the  men,  Mary." 

"Like  to  smash  windows?  Let's  see — it's  red  fours, 
black  fives  up?"  remarked  Tom,  as  he  prepared  the  pack 
of  cards  for  playing. 

"Yes,  I  would!  It  makes  me  so  tired,"  asseverated 
Mrs.  Arty,  "to  think  of  the  old  goats  that  men  put  up  for 
candidates  when  they  know  they're  solemn  old  fools! 
I'd  just  like  to  get  out  and  vote  my  head  off." 

"Well,  I  think  the  woman's  place  is  in  the  home," 
sniffed  Miss  Proudfoot,  decisively,  tucking  away  a  doily 
she  was  finishing  for  the  Women's  Exchange  and  jabbing 
at  her  bangs. 

They  settled  themselves  about  the  glowing,  glancing, 
glittering,  golden-oak  center-table.  Miss  Proudfoot  shuf 
fled  sternly.  Mr.  Wrenn  sat  still  and  frightened,  like  a 
shipwrecked  professor  on  a  raft  with  two  gamblers  and  a 
press-agent,  though  Nelly  was  smiling  encouragingly  at 
him  from  the  couch  where  she  had  started  her  embroidery 
— a  large  Christmas  lamp  mat  for  the  wife  of  the  Presby 
terian  pastor  at  Upton's  Grove. 

"Don't    you   wish    your   little    friend    Horatio    Hood 
Teddem  was  here  to  play  with  you?"  remarked  Tom. 
14  197 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"I  do  not,"  declared  Mrs.  Arty.  "Still,  there  was  one 
thing  about  Horatio.  I  never  had  to  look  up  his  account 
to  find  out  how  much  he  owed  me.  He  stopped  calling 
me  *  Little  Buttercup '  when  he  owed  me  ten  dollars,  and 
he  even  stopped  slamming  the  front  door  when  he  got  up 
to  twenty.  O  Mr.  Wrenn,  did  I  ever  tell  you  about  the 
time  I  asked  him  if  he  wanted  to  have  Annie  sweep " 

"Gerty!"  protested  Miss  Proudfoot,  while  Nelly,  on  the 
couch,  ejaculated  mechanically,  "That  story!"  but  Mrs. 
Arty  chuckled  fatly,  and  continued: 

"I  asked  him  if  he  wanted  me  to  have  Annie  sweep  his 
nightshirt  when  she  swept  his  room.  He  changed  it  next 
day." 

"Your  bid,  Mr.  Poppins,"  said  Miss  Proudfoot,  severely. 

"First,  I  want  to  tell  Wrenn  how  to  play.  You  see, 
Wrenn,  here's  the  schedule.  We  play  Avondale  Schedule, 
you  know." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn,  timorously.  ...  He  had 
once  heard  of  Carbondale — in  New  Jersey  or  Pennsyl 
vania  or  somewhere — but  that  didn't  seem  to  help  much. 

"Well,  you  see,  you  either  make  or  go  back,"  con 
tinued  Tom.  "Plus  and  minus,  you  know.  Joker  is 
high,  then  right  bower,  left,  and  ace.  Then — uh — let's 
see;  high  bid  takes  the  cat — widdie,  you  know — and 
discards.  Ten  tricks.  Follow  suit  like  whist,  of  course. 
I  guess  that's  all — that  ought  to  give  you  the  hang  of  it, 
anyway.  I  bid  six  on  no  trump." 

As  Tom  Poppins  finished  these  instructions,  given  in  the 
card-player's  rapid  don't-ask-me-any-more-fool-questions 
manner,  Mr.  Wrenn  felt  that  he  was  choking.  He  craned 
up  his  neck,  trying  to  ease  his  stiff  collar.  So,  then,  he  was 
a  failure,  a  social  outcast  already. 

So,  then,  he  couldn't  learn  Five  Hundred!  And  he  had 
been  very  proud  of  knowing  one  card  from  another  per 
fectly,  having  played  a  number  of  games  of  two-handed 
poker  with  Tim  on  the  cattle-boat.  But  what  the  dick 
ens  did  "left — cat — follow  suit"  mean? 

198 


HE    STUDIES    FIVE    HUNDRED 

And  to  fail  with  Nelly  watching  him!  He  pulled  at  his 
collar  again. 

Thus  he  reflected  while  Mrs.  Arty  and  Tom  were  carry 
ing  on  the  following  brilliant  but  cryptic  society-dialogue: 

Mrs.  Arty:  Well,  I  don't  know. 

Tom:  Not  failure,  but  low  bid  is  crime,  little  one. 

Mrs.  Arty:  Mary,  shall  I  make 

Tom:  Hey!     No  talking  'cross  table! 

Mrs.  Arty:  Um — let — me — see. 

Tom:  Bid  up,  bid  up!     Bid  a  little  seven  on  hearts? 

Mrs.  Arty:  Just  for  that  \will  bid  seven  on  hearts,  smarty! 

Tom:  Oh,  how  we  will  squat  you!  —  What  you  bidding, 
Wrenn  ? 

Behind  Mr.  Wrenn,  Nelly  Croubel  whispered  to  him: 
"Bid  seven  on  no  suit.  You've  got  the  joker."  Her 
delicate  forefinger,  its  nail  shining,  was  pointing  at  a 
curious  card  in  his  hand. 

"Seven  nosut,"  he  mumbled. 

"Eight  hearts,"  snapped  Miss  Proudfoot. 

Nelly  drew  up  a  chair  behind  Mr.  Wrenn's.  He 
listened  to  her  soft  explanations  with  the  desperate  respect 
and  affection  which  a  green  subaltern  would  give  to  a 
general  in  battle. 

Tom  and  he  won  the  hand.  He  glanced  back  at  Nelly 
with  awe,  then  clutched  his  new  hand,  fearfully,  dizzily, 
staring  at  it  as  though  it  might  conceal  one  of  those 
malevolent  deceivers  of  which  Nelly  had  just  warned  him 
— a  left  bower. 

"Good!     Spades— see,"  said  Nelly. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  Mr.  Wrenn  felt  that  Tom  was 
hoping  he  would  lead  a  club.  He  played  one,  and  the 
whole  table  said:  "That's  right.  Fine!" 

On  his  shoulder  he  felt  a  light  tap,  and  he  blushed  like 
a  sunset  as  he  peeped  back  at  Nelly. 

Mr.  Wrenn,  the  society  light,  was  Our  Mr.  Wrenn  of 
the  Souvenir  Company  all  this  time.  Indeed,  at  present 

199 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

he  intended  to  keep  on  taking  The  Job  seriously  until 
that  most  mistily  distant  time,  which  we  all  await,  "when 
something  turns  up."  His  fondling  of  the  Southern 
merchants  was  showing  such  results  that  he  had  grown 
from  an  interest  in  whatever  papers  were  on  his  desk  to  a 
belief  in  the  divine  necessity  of  The  Job  as  a  whole.  Not 
now,  as  of  old,  did  he  keep  the  personal  letters  in  his  desk 
tied  up,  ready  for  a  sudden  departure  for  Vienna  or 
Kamchatka.  Also,  he  wished  to  earn  much  more  money 
for  his  new  career  of  luxury.  Mr.  Guilfogle  had  assured 
him  that  there  might  be  chances  ahead — business  had 
been  prospering,  two  new  road  salesmen  and  a  city- 
trade  man  had  been  added  to  the  staff,  and  whereas 
the  firm  had  formerly  been  jobbers  only,  buying  their 
novelties  from  manufacturers,  now  they  were  having 
printed  for  them  their  own  Lotsa  -  Snap  Cardboard 
Office  Mottoes,  which  were  making  a  big  hit  with  the 
trade. 

Through  his  friend  Rabin,  the  salesman,  Mr.  Wrenn  got 
better  acquainted  with  two  great  men — Mr.  L.  J.  Glover, 
the  purchasing  agent  of  the  Souvenir  Company,  and  John 
Hensen,  the  newly  engaged  head  of  motto  manufacturing. 
He  "wanted  to  get  onto  all  the  different  lines  of  the 
business  so's  he  could  step  right  in  anywhere";  and  from 
these  men  he  learned  the  valuable  secrets  of  business 
wherewith  the  marts  of  trade  build  up  prosperity  for  all  of 
us:  how  to  seat  a  selling  agent  facing  the  light,  so  you 
can  see  his  face  better  than  he  can  see  yours.  How  much 
ahead  of  time  to  telephone  the  motto-printer  that  "we've 
simply  got  to  have  proof  this  afternoon;  what's  the 
matter  with  you,  down  there?  Don't  you  want  our 
business  any  more?"  He  also  learned  something  of  the 
various  kinds  of  cardboard  and  ink-well  glass,  though 
these,  of  course,  were  merely  matters  of  knowledge,  not  of 
brilliant  business  tactics,  and  far  less  important  than 
what  Tom  Poppins  and  Rabin  called  "handing  out  a 
snappy  line  of  talk." 

200 


HE   STUDIES    FIVE   HUNDRED 

"Say,  you're  getting  quite  chummy  lately — reg'lar 
society  leader,"  Rabin  informed  him. 

Mr.  Wrenn's  answer  was  in  itself  a  proof  of  the  sound 
ness  of  Rabin's  observation: 

"Sure — Fm  going  to  borrow  some  money  from  you 
fellows.  Got  to  make  an  impression,  see?" 

A  few  hours  after  this  commendation  came  Istra's 
second  letter: 

Mouse  dear,  I'm  so  glad  to  hear  about  the  simpatico  boarding- 
house.  Yes  indeed  I  would  like  to  hear  about  the  people  in  it. 
And  you  are  reading  history?  That's  good.  I'm  getting  sick 
of  Paris  and  some  day  I'm  going  to  stop  an  absinthe  on  the 
boulevard  and  slap  its  face  to  show  I'm  a  sturdy  moving-picture 
Western  Amurrican  and  then  leap  to  saddle  and  pursue  the 
bandit.  I'm  working  like  the  devil  but  what's  the  use.  That 
is  I  mean  unless  one  is  doing  the  job  well,  as  I'm  glad  you  are. 
My  dear,  keep  it  up.  You  know  I  want  you  to  be  real  whatever 
you  are.  I  didn't  mean  to  preach  but  you  know  I  hate  people 
who  aren't  real — that's  why  I  haven't  much  of  a  flair  for  myself. 

Au  recrire9  I.  N. 

After  he  had  read  her  letter  for  the  third  time  he  was 
horribly  shocked  and  regarded  himself  as  a  traitor,  be 
cause  he  found  that  he  was  only  pretending  to  be  enjoy- 
ably  excited  over  it.  ...  It  seemed  so  detached  from  him 
self.  "Flair" — "au  recrire"  Now,  what  did  those  mean? 
And  Istra  was  always  so  discontented.  "What  'd  she  do 
if  she  had  to  be  on  the  job  like  Nelly?  .  .  .  Oh,  Istra  is 
wonderful.  But — gee! — I  dunno " 

And  when  he  who  has  valorously  loved  says  "But — gee! 
— I  dunno "  love  flees  in  panic. 

He  walked  home  thoughtfully. 

After  dinner  he  said  abruptly  to  Nelly,  "I  had  a  letter 
from  Paris  to-day." 

"Honestly?     Who  is  she?" 

"G-g-g-g " 

"Oh,  it's  always  a  she." 

"Why — uh — it  is  from  a  girl.    I  started  to  tell  you  about 

201 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

her  one  day.  She's  an  artist,  and  once  we  took  a  long 
tramp  in  the  country.  I  met  her — she  was  staying  at  the 
same  place  as  I  was  in  London.  But — oh,  gee!  I  dunno; 

she's  so  blame  literary.  She  is  a  fine  person Do 

you  think  you'd  like  a  girl  like  that?" 

"Maybe  I  would." 

"If  she  was  a  man?" 

"Oh,  yes-s!     Artists  are  so  romantic." 

"But  they  ain't  on  the  job  more  'n  half  the  time,"  he 
said,  jealously. 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

His  hand  stole  secretly,  craftily  skirting  a  cushion,  to 
touch  hers — which  she  withdrew,  laughing: 

"Hump-a!     You  go  hold  your  artist's  hand!" 

"Oh,  Miss  Nelly!     When  I  told  you  about  her  myself!" 

"Oh  yes,  of  course." 

She  was  contrite,  and  they  played  Five  Hundred 
animatedly  all  evening. 


XVI 

HE    BECOMES    MILDLY    RELIGIOUS    AND    HIGHLY    LITERARY 

THE  hero  of  the  one-act  play  at  Hammerstein's  Victoria 
vaudeville  theater  on  that  December  evening  was,  it 
appeared,  a  wealthy  young  mine-owner  in  disguise.  He 
was  working  for  the  "fake  mine  promoter"  because  he 
loved  the  promoter's  daughter  with  a  love  that  passed 
all  understanding  except  that  of  the  girls  in  the  gallery. 
When  the  postal  authorities  were  about  to  arrest  the 
promoter  our  young  hero  saved  him  by  giving  him  a  real 
mine,  and  the  ensuing  kiss  of  the  daughter  ended  the 
suspense  in  which  Mr.  Wrenn  and  Nelly,  Mrs.  Arty  and 
Tom  had  watched  the  play  from  the  sixth  row  of  the 
balcony. 

Sighing  happily,  Nelly  cried  to  the  group:  "Wasn't 
that  grand?  I  got  so  excited!  Wasn't  that  young  miner 
a  dear?" 

"Awfully  nice,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn.  "And,  gee!  wasn't 
that  great,  that  office  scene — with  that  safe  and  the  rest  of 
the  stuff — just  like  you  was  in  a  real  office.  But,  say, 
they  wouldn't  have  a  copying-press  in  an  office  like  that; 
those  fake  mine  promoters  send  out  such  swell  letters; 
they'd  use  carbon  copies  and  not  muss  the  letters  all  up." 

"By  gosh,  that's  right!"  and  Tom  nodded  his  chin 
toward  his  right  shoulder  in  approval.  Nelly  cried, 
"That's  so;  they  would";  while  Mrs.  Arty,  not  knowing 
what  a  copying-press  was,  appeared  highly  commenda 
tory,  and  said  nothing  at  all. 

During  the  moving  pictures  that  followed,  Mr.  Wrenn 

203 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

felt  proudly  that  he  was  taken  seriously,  though  he  had 
known  them  but  little  over  a  month.  He  followed  up  his 
conversational  advantage  by  leading  the  chorus  in  won 
dering,  "which  one  of  them  two  actors  the  heroine  was 
married  to?"  and  "how  much  a  week  they  get  for  acting 
in  that  thing?"  It  was  Tom  who  invited  them  to  Miggle- 
ton's  for  coffee  and  fried  oysters.  Mr.  Wrenn  was  silent 
for  a  while.  But  as  they  were  stamping  through  the 
rivulets  of  wheel -tracks  that  crisscrossed  on  a  slushy 
street-crossing  Mr.  Wrenn  regained  his  advantage  by 
crying,  "Say,  don't  you  think  that  play 'd  have  been 
better  if  the  promoter  'd  had  an  awful  grouch  on  the 
young  miner  and  'd  had  to  crawfish  when  the  miner  saved 
him?" 

"Why,  yes;  it  would!"     Nelly  glowed  at  him. 

"Wouldn't  wonder  if  it  would,"  agreed  Tom,  kicking 
the  December  slush  off  his  feet  and  patting  Mr.  Wrenn's 
back. 

"Well,  look  here,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn,  as  they  left  Broad 
way,  with  its  crowds  betokening  the  approach  of  Christmas, 
and  stamped  to  the  quieter  side  of  Forty-second,  "why 
wouldn't  this  make  a  slick  play:  say  there's  an  awfully 
rich  old  guy;  say  he's  a  railway  president  or  something, 
d'  you  see?  Well,  he's  got  a  secretary  there  in  the  office — • 
on  the  stage,  see?  The  scene  is  his  office.  Well,  this  guy's 
— the  rich  old  guy's— daughter  comes  in  and  says  she's 
married  to  a  poor  man  and  she  won't  tell  his  name,  but 
she  wants  some  money  from  her  dad.  You  see,  her  dad's 
been  planning  for  her  to  marry  a  marquise  or  some  kind 
of  a  lord,  and  he's  sore  as  can  be,  and  he  won't  listen  to 
her,  and  he  just  cusses  her  out  something  fierce,  see? 
Course  he  doesn't  really  cuss,  but  he's  awful  sore;  and  she 
tells  him  didn't  he  marry  her  mother  when  he  was  a  poor 
young  man;  but  he  won't  listen.  Then  the  secretary 
butts  in — my  idea  is  he's  been  kind  of  keeping  in  the 
background,  see — and  he's  the  daughter's  husband  all  the 
while,  see  ?  and  he  tells  the  old  codger  how  he's  got  some 

204 


HE    BECOMES   LITERARY 

of  his — some  of  the  old  fellow's — papers  that  give  it  away 
how  he  done  something  that  was  crooked — some  kind  of 
deal — rebates  and  stuff,  see  how  I  mean? — and  the 
secretary's  going  to  spring  this  stuff  on  the  newspapers  if 
the  old  man  don't  come  through  and  forgive  them;  so  of 
course  the  president  has  to  forgive  them,  see?" 

"You  mean  the  secretary  was  the  daughter's  husband 
all  along,  and  he  heard  what  the  president  said  right 
there?"  Nelly  panted,  stopping  outside  Miggleton's,  in 
the  light  from  the  oyster-filled  window. 

"Yes;   and  he  heard  it  all." 

"Why,  I  think  that's  just  a  fine  idea,"  declared  Nelly, 
as  they  entered  the  restaurant.  Though  her  little  manner 
of  dignity  and  even  restraint  was  evident  as  ever,  she 
seemed  keenly  joyous  over  his  genius. 

"Say,  that's  a  corking  idea  for  a  play,  Wrenn,"  ex 
claimed  Tom,  at  their  table,  gallantly  removing  the 
ladies'  wraps. 

"It  surely  is,"  agreed  Mrs.  Arty. 

"Why  don't  you  write  it?"  asked  Nelly. 

"Aw — I  couldn't  write  it!" 

"Why,  sure  you  could,  Bill,"  insisted  Tom.  "Straight; 
you  ought  to  write  it.  (Hey,  waiter!  Four  fries  and 
coffee!)  You  ought  to  write  it.  Why,  it's  a  wonder; 

it  'd  make  a  dev 'Scuse  me,  ladies.     It  'd  make  a 

howling  hit.  You  might  make  a  lot  of  money  out 
of  it." 

The  renewed  warmth  of  their  wet  feet  on  the  red-tile 
floor,  the  scent  of  fried  oysters,  the  din  of  "Any  Little 
Girl"  on  the  piano,  these  added  color  to  this  moment  of 
Mr.  Wrenn's  great  resolve.  The  four  stared  at  one 
another  excitedly.  Mr.  Wrenn's  eyelids  fluttered.  Tom 
brought  his  hand  down  on  the  table  with  a  soft  flat 
"plob"  and  declared:  "Say,  there  might  be  a  lot  of 
money  in  it.  Why,  I've  heard  that  Harry  Smith — writes 
the  words  for  these  musical  comedies — makes  a  mint  of 
money." 

205 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"Mr.  Poppins  ought  to  help  you  in  it — he's  seen  such  a 
lot  of  plays,"  Mrs.  Arty  anxiously  advised. 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  said  Mr.  Wrenn. 

It  had,  apparently,  been  ordained  that  he  was  to  write 
it.  They  were  now  settling  important  details.  So  when 
Nelly  cried,  "I  think  it's  just  a  fine  idea;  I  knew  you  had 
lots  of  imagination,"  Tom  interrupted  her  with: 

"No;  you  write  it,  Bill.  I'll  help  you  all  I  can,  of 
course.  .  .  .  Tell  you  what  you  ought  to  do:  get  hold  of 
Teddem — he's  had  a  lot  of  stage  experience;  he'd  help  you 
about  seeing  the  managers.  That  'd  be  the  hard  part — 
you  can  write  it,  all  right,  but  you'd  have  to  get  next  to 

the  guys  on  the  inside,  and  Teddem Say,  you  cer-^ 

tainly  ought  to  write  this  thing,  Bill.     Might  make  a  lot 
of  money." 

"Oh,  a  lot!"  breathed  Nelly. 

"Heard  about  a  fellow,"  continued  Tom — "fellow named 
Gene  Wolf,  I  think  it  was — that  was  so  broke  he  was 
sleeping  in  Bryant  Park,  and  he  made  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  on  his  first  play — or,  no;  tell  you  how  it  was:  he 
sold  it  outright  for  ten  thousand — something  like  that, 
anyway.  I  got  that  right  from  a  fellow  that's  met  him." 

"Still,  an  author's  got  to  go  to  college  and  stuff"  like 
that."  Mr.  Wrenn  spoke  as  though  he  would  be  pleased 
to  have  the  objection  overruled  at  once,  which  it  was 
with  a  universal: 

"Oh,  rats!" 

Crunching  oysters  in  a  brown  jacket  of  flour,  whose 
every  lump  was  a  crisp  delight,  hearing  his  genius  lauded 
and  himself  called  Bill  thrice  in  a  quarter-hour,  Mr.  Wrenn 
was  beatified.  He  asked  the  waiter  for  some  paper,  and 
while  the  four  hotly  discussed  things  which  "it  would 
be  slick  to  have  the  president's  daughter  do  "  he  drew  up  a 
list  of  characters  on  a  sheet  of  paper  he  still  keeps.  It  is 
headed,  "Miggleton's  Forty-second  Street  Branch."  At 
the  bottom  appear  numerous  scribblings  of  the  name 
Nelly. 

206 


POPULAR  PRICES  *&®  MUSIC  ^58?  BEST  SEBVICE 


IN 


JD°b** 

JE 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"I  think  I'll  call  the  heroine  '  Nelly/  "  he  mused. 

Nelly  Croubel  blushed.  Mrs.  Arty  and  Tom  glanced 
at  each  other.  Mr.  Wrenn  realized  that  he  had,  even  at 
this  moment  of  social  triumph,  "made  a  break." 

He  said,  hastily:  "I  always  liked  that  name.  I — I 
had  an  aunt  named  that!" 

"Oh "  started  Nelly. 

"She  was  fine  to  me  when  I  was  a  kid,"  Mr.  Wrenn 
added,  trying  to  remember  whether  it  was  right  to  lie 
when  in  such  need. 

"Oh,  it's  a  horrid  name,"  declared  Nelly.  "Why 
don't  you  call  her  something  nice,  like  Hazel — or — oh — • 
Dolores." 

"Nope;   Nelly's  an  elegant  name — an  elegant  name." 

He  walked  with  Nelly  behind  the  others,  along  Forty- 
second  Street.  To  the  outsider's  eye  he  was  a  small 
respectable  clerk,  slightly  stooped,  with  a  polite  mus 
tache  and  the  dignity  that  comes  from  knowing  well  a 
narrow  world;  wearing  an  overcoat  too  light  for  winter; 
too  busily  edging  out  of  the  way  of  people  and  guiding  the 
nice  girl  beside  him  into  clear  spaces  by  diffidently  touch 
ing  her  elbow,  too  pettily  busy  to  cast  a  glance  out  of  the 
crowd  and  spy  the  passing  poet  or  king,  or  the  iron  night 
sky.  He  was  as  undistinguishable  a  bit  of  the  evening 
street  life  as  any  of  the  file  of  street-cars  slashing  through 
the  wet  snow.  Yet,  he  was  the  chivalrous  squire  to  the 
greatest  lady  of  all  his  realm;  he  was  a  society  author, 
and  a  man  of  great  prospective  wealth  and  power  over 
mankind! 

"Say,  we'll  have  the  grandest  dinner  you  ever  saw  if 
I  get  away  with  the  play,"  he  was  saying.  "Will  you 
come,  Miss  Nelly?" 

"Indeed  I  will!  Oh,  you  sha'n't  leave  me  out!  Wasn't 
I  there  when— 

"Indeed  you  were!  Oh,  we'll  have  a  reg'Iyr  feast  at  the 
Astor — artichokes  and  truffles  and  all  sorts  of  stuff. 
.  .  .  Would — would  you  like  it  if  I  sold  the  play?" 

208 


HE    BECOMES    LITERARY 

"Course  I  would,  silly!" 

"I'd  buy  the  business  and  make  Rabin  manager — the 
Souvenir  Company." 

So  he  came  to  relate  all  those  intimacies  of  The  Job; 
and  he  was  overwhelmed  at  the  ease  with  which  she  "got 
onto  old  Goglefogle." 

His  preparations  for  writing  the  play  were  elaborate. 

He  paced  Tom's  room  till  twelve-thirty,  consulting  as 
to  whether  he  had  to  plan  the  stage-setting;  smoking 
cigarettes  in  attitudes  on  chair  arms.  Next  morning  in 
the  office  he  made  numerous  plans  of  the  setting  on 
waste  half-sheets  of  paper.  At  noon  he  was  telephoning 
at  Tom  regarding  the  question  of  whether  there  ought 
to  be  one  desk  or  two  on  the  stage. 

He  skipped  the  evening  meal  at  Mrs.  Arty's,  dining  with 
literary  pensiveness  at  the  Armenian,  for  he  had  subtle 
problems  to  meditate.  He  bought  a  dollar  fountain-pen, 
which  had  large  gold-like  bands  and  a  rather  scratchy  pen- 
point,  and  a  box  of  fairly  large  sheets  of  paper.  Pressing 
his  literary  impedimenta  tenderly  under  his  arm,  he  at 
tended  four  moving-picture  and  vaudeville  theaters.  By 
eleven  he  had  seen  three  more  one-act  plays  and  a  dramatic 
playlet. 

He  slipped  by  the  parlor  door  at  Mrs.  Arty's. 

His  room  was  quiet.  The  lamplight  on  the  delicately 
green  walls  was  like  that  of  a  regular  author's  den,  he  was 
quite  sure.  He  happily  tested  the  fountain-pen  by  writ 
ing  the  names  Nelly  and  William  Wrenn  on  a  bit  of 
wrapping-paper  (which  he  guiltily  burned  in  an  ash-tray); 
washed  his  face  with  water  which  he  let  run  for  a  minute 
to  cool;  sat  down  before  his  table  with  a  grunt  of  content; 
went  back  and  washed  his  hands;  fiercely  threw  off  the 
bourgeois  encumbrances  of  coat  and  collar;  sat  down 
again;  got  up  to  straighten  a  picture;  picked  up  his 
pen;  laid  it  down,  and  glowed  as  he  thought  of  Nelly, 
slumbering  there,  near  at  hand,  her  exquisite  cheek  nestling 

silkenly  against  her  arm,  perhaps,  and  her  white  dreams 

209 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Suddenly  he  roared  at  himself,  "Get  on  the  job  there, 
will  yuh?"  He  picked  up  the  pen  and  wrote: 

THE  MILLIONAIRE'S  DAUGHTER 

A  ONE  ACT  DRAMATIC  PLAYLET 

by 

WILLIAM   WRENN 

CHARACTERS 

John  Warrington^  a  railway  president;   quite  rich. 
Nelly   Warrington,  Mr.  Warrington's  daughter. 
Reginald  Thome,  his  secretary. 

He  was  jubilant.  His  pen  whined  at  top  speed,  scatter 
ing  a  shower  of  tiny  drops  of  ink. 

Stage  Scene:  An  office.  Very  expensive.  Mr.  Warrington  and 
Mr.  Thome  are  sitting  there.  Miss  Warrington  comes  in.  She 
says: 

He  stopped.  He  thought.  He  held  his  head.  He 
went  over  to  the  stationary  bowl  and  soaked  his  hair  with 
water.  He  lay  on  the  bed  and  kicked  his  heels,  slowly  and 
gravely  smoothing  his  mustache.  Fifty  minutes  later  he 
gave  a  portentous  groan  and  went  to  bed. 

He  hadn't  been  able  to  think  of  what  Miss  Warrington 
says  beyond  "I  have  come  to  tell  you  that  I  am  married, 
papa,"  and  that  didn't  sound  just  right;  not  for  a  first 
line  it  didn't,  anyway. 

At  dinner  next  night — Saturday — Tom  was  rather  in 
clined  to  make  references  to  "our  author,"  and  to  remark: 
"Well,  I  know  where  somebody  was  last  night,  but  of 
course  I  won't  tell.  Say,  them  authors  are  a  wild  lot." 

Mr.  Wrenn,  who  had  permitted  the  teasing  of  even 
Tim,  the  hatter,  "wasn't  going  to  stand  for  no  kidding 
from  nobody — not  when  Nelly  was  there,"  and  he  called 
for  a  glass  of  water  with  the  air  of  a  Harvard  assistant 

210 


HE    BECOMES    LITERARY 

professor  forced  to  eat  in  a  lunch-wagon  and  slapped  on 
the  back  by  the  cook. 

Nelly  soothed  him.     "The  play  is  going  well,  isn't  it?" 

When  he  had,  with  a  detached  grandeur  of  which  he 
was  immediately  ashamed,  vouchsafed  that  he  was 
already  "getting  right  down  to  brass  tacks  on  it,"  that 
he  had  already  investigated  four  more  plays  and  begun 
the  actual  writing,  every  one  looked  awed  and  asked  him 
assorted  questions. 

At  nine-thirty  that  evening  he  combed  and  tightly 
brushed  his  hair,  which  he  had  been  pawing  angrily  for 
an  hour  and  a  half,  went  down  the  hall  to  Nelly's  hall 
bedroom,  and  knocked  with:  "It's  Mr.  Wrenn.  May  I 
ask  you  something  about  the  play?" 

"Just  a  moment,"  he  heard  her  say. 

He  waited,  panting  softly,  his  lips  apart.  This  was  to 
be  the  first  time  he  had  ever  seen  Nelly's  room.  She 
opened  the  door  part  way,  smiling  shyly,  timidly,  hold 
ing  her  pale-blue  dressing-gown  close.  The  pale  blueness 
was  a  modestly  brilliant  spot  against  the  whiteness  of  the 
room — white  bureau,  hung  with  dance  programs  and  a 
yellow  Upton's  Grove  High  School  banner,  white  tiny 
rocker,  pale-yellow  matting,  white-and-silver  wall-paper, 
and  a  glimpse  of  a  white  soft  bed. 

He  was  dizzy  with  the  exaltation  of  that  purity,  but  he 
got  himself  to  say: 

"I'm  kind  of  stuck  on  the  first  part  of  the  play,  Miss 
Nelly.  Please  tell  me  how  you  think  the  heroine  would 
speak  to  her  dad.  Would  she  call  him  'papa'  or  'sir/ 
do  you  think?" 

"Why— let  me  see " 

"They're  such  awful  high  society " 

"Yes,  that's  so.  Why,  I  should  think  she'd  say  'sir.' 
Maybe — oh,  what  was  it  I  heard  in  a  play  at  the  Academy 
of  Music?  'Father,  I  have  come  back  to  you!'" 

"  Sa-a-ay,  that's  a  fine  line !  That  '11  get  the  crowrd  going 
right  from  the  first.  ...  I  told  you  you'd  help  me  a  lot." 

211 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

"Fm  awfully  glad  if  I  have  helped  you,"  she  said, 
earnestly;  "  awfully  glad,  but—  Good  night — and  good 
luck  with  the  play.  Good  night." 

"Good  night.  Thank  you  a  lot,  Miss  Nelly.  Church 
in  the  morning,  remember!  Good  night." 

"Good  night." 

As  it  is  well  known  that  all  playwrights  labor  with  toy 
theaters  before  them  for  working  models,  Mr.  Wrenn 
ran  to  earth  a  fine  unbroken  pasteboard  box  in  which  a 
ninety-eight-cent  alarm-clock  had  recently  arrived.  He 
went  out  for  some  glue  and  three  small  corks.  Setting  up 
his  box  stage,  he  glued  a  pill-box  and  a  match-box  on  the 
floor — the  side  of  the  box  it  had  always  been  till  now — 
and  there  he  had  the  mahogany  desks.  He  thrust  three 
matches  into  the  corks,  and  behold  three  graceful  actors — 
graceful  for  corks,  at  least.  There  was  fascination  in 
having  them  enter,  through  holes  punched  in  the  back  of 
the  box,  frisk  up  to  their  desks  and  deliver  magic  emo 
tional  speeches  that  would  cause  any  audience  to  weep; 
speeches  regarding  which  he  knew  everything  but  the 
words;  a  detail  of  which  he  was  still  quite  ignorant  after 
half  an  hour  of  playing  with  his  marionettes. 

Before  he  went  despairingly  to  bed  that  Saturday 
night  he  had  added  to  his  manuscript: 

Mr.  Thome  says :  Here  are  the  papers,  sir.  As  a  great  railway 
president  you  should 

The  rest  of  that  was  to  be  filled  in  later.  How  the 
dickens  could  he  let  the  public  know  how  truly  great  his 
president  was? 

(Daughter,  Miss  Nelly,  comes  in.) 

Miss  Nelly:    Father,  I  have  come  back  to  you,  sir. 

Mr.  Harrington:    My  daughter! 

Nelly:    Father,  I  have  something  to  tell  you;   something 

Breakfast  at  Mrs.  Arty's  was  always  an  inspiration. 
In  contrast  to  the  lonely  dingy  meal  at  the  Hustler 

212 


HE    BECOMES    LITERARY 

Dairy  Lunch  of  his  Zapp  days,  he  sat  next  to  a  trimly 
shirtwaisted  Nelly,  fresh  and  enthusiastic  after  nine  hours' 
sleep.  So  much  for  ordinary  days.  But  Sunday  morn 
ing — that  was  paradise!  The  oil-stove  glowed  and  purred 
like  a  large  tin  pussy  cat;  it  toasted  their  legs  into  dreamy 
comfort,  while  they  methodically  stuffed  themselves  with 
toast  and  waffles  and  coffee.  Nelly  and  he  always  felt 
gently  superior  to  Tom  Poppins,  who  would  be  a-sleeping 
late,  as  they  talked  of  the  joy  of  not  having  to  go  to  the 
office,  of  approaching  Christmas,  and  of  the  superiority  of 
Upton's  Grove  and  Parthenon. 

This  morning  was  to  be  Mr.  Wrenn's  first  attendance 
at  church  with  Nelly.  The  previous  time  they  had 
planned  to  go,  Mr.  Wrenn  had  spent  Sunday  morning  in 
unreligious  fervor  at  the  Chelsea  Dental  Parlors  with  a 
young  man  in  a  white  jacket  instead  of  at  church  with 
Nelly. 

This  was  also  the  first  time  that  he  had  attended  a 
church  service  in  nine  years,  except  for  mass  at  St. 
Patrick's,  which  he  regarded  not  as  church,  but  as  beauty. 
He  felt  tremendously  reformed,  set  upon  new  paths  of 
virtue  and  achievement.  He  thought  slightingly  of  those 
lonely  bachelors,  Morton  and  Mittyford,  Ph.D.  They 
just  didn't  know  what  it  meant  to  a  fellow  to  be  going  to 
church  with  a  girl  like  Miss  Nelly,  he  reflected,  as  he  re- 
brushed  his  hair  after  breakfast. 

He  walked  proudly  beside  her,  and  made  much  of  the 
gentility  of  entering  the  church,  as  one  of  the  well-to-do 
and  intensely  bathed  congregation.  He  even  bowed  to 
an  almost  painfully  washed  and  brushed  young  usher 
with  gold-rimmed  eye-glasses.  He  thought  scornfully  of 
his  salad  days,  when  he  had  bowed  to  the  Brass-button 
Man  at  the  Nickelorion. 

The  church  interior  was  as  comfortable  as  Sunday- 
morning  toast  and  marmalade — half  a  block  of  red  carpet 
in  the  aisles;  shiny  solid-oak  pews,  gorgeous  stained-glass 
windows,  and  a  general  polite  creaking  of  ladies'  best 

15  2I3 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

stays  and  gentlemen's  stiff  shirt-bosoms,  and  an  odor  of 
the  best  cologne  and  moth-balls. 

It  lacked  but  six  days  till  Christmas.  Mr.  Wrenn's 
heart  was  a  little  garden,  and  his  eyes  were  moist,  and  he 
peeped  tenderly  at  Nelly  as  he  saw  the  holly  and  ivy  and 
the  frosted  Christmas  mottoes,  "Peace  on  Earth,  Good 
Will  to  Men,"  and  the  rest,  that  brightened  the  spaces 
between  windows. 

Christmas — happy  homes — laughter. . . .  Since,  as  a  boy, 
he  had  attended  the  Christmas  festivities  of  the  Old 
Church  Sunday-school  at  Parthenon,  and  got  highly 
colored  candy  in  a  net  bag,  his  holidays  had  been  cele 
brated  by  buying  himself  plum  pudding  at  lonely  Christ 
mas  dinners  at  large  cheap  restaurants,  where  there  was 
no  one  to  wish  him  "Merry  Christmas"  except  his 
waiter,  whom  he  would  quite  probably  never  see  again, 
nor  ever  wish  to  see. 

But  this  Christmas — he  surprised  himself  and  Nelly 
suddenly  by  hotly  thrusting  out  his  hand  and  touching 
her  sleeve  with  the  searching  finger-tips  of  a  child  com 
forted  from  night  fears. 

During  the  sermon  he  had  an  idea.  What  was  it  Nelly 
had  told  him  about  "Peter  Pan"?  Oh  yes;  somebody 
in  it  had  said  "Do  you  believe  in  fairies?"  Say,  why 
wouldn't  it  be  great  to  have  the  millionaire's  daughter 
say  to  her  father,  "Do  you  believe  in  love?" 

"Gee,  7  believe  in  love!"  he  yearned  to  himself,  as  he 
felt  Nelly's  arm  unconsciously  touch  his. 

Tom  Poppins  had  Horatio  Hood  Teddem  in  that  after 
noon  for  a  hot  toddy.  Horatio  looked  very  boyish,  very 
confiding,  and  borrowed  five  dollars  from  Mr.  Wrenn 
almost  painlessly,  so  absorbed  was  Mr.  Wrenn  in  learn 
ing  from  Horatio  how  to  sell  a  play.  To  know  the  address 
of  the  firm  of  Wendelbaum  &  Schirtz,  play-brokers, 
located  in  a  Broadway  theater  building,  seemed  next 
door  to  knowing  a  Broadway  manager. 

When  Horatio  had  gone  Tom  presented  an  idea  which 

214 


HE    BECOMES    LITERARY 

he  had  ponderously  conceived  during  his  Sunday  noon- 
hour  at  the  cigar-store. 

"Why  not  have  three  of  us — say  me  and  you  and  Mrs. 
Arty — talk  the  play,  just  like  we  was  acting  it?" 

He  enthusiastically  forced  the  plan  on  Mr.  Wrenn.  He 
pounded  down-stairs  and  brought  up  Mrs.  Arty.  He 
dashed  about  the  room,  shouting  directions.  He  dragged 
out  his  bureau  for  the  railroad-president's  desk,  and  a 
table  for  the  secretary,  and,  after  some  consideration  and 
much  rubbing  of  his  chin,  with  two  slams  and  a  bang  he 
converted  his  hard  green  Morris-chair  into  an  office  safe. 

The  play  was  on.  Mr.  T.  Poppins,  in  the  role  of  the 
president,  entered,  with  a  stern  high  expression  on  his  face, 
threw  a  "Good  morning,  Thorne,"  at  Wrenn,  his  secretary, 
and  peeled  off  his  gloves.  (Mr.  Wrenn  noted  the  gloves; 
they  were  a  Touch.) 

Mr.  Wrenn  approached  diffidently,  his  face  expression 
less,  lest  Mrs.  Arty  laugh  at  him.  "Here 

"Say,  what  do  you  think  would  be  a  good  way  for  the 
secretary  to  tell  the  crowd  that  the  other  guy  is  the 
president?  Say,  how  about  this:  'The  vice-president  of 
the  railway  would  like  to  have  you  sign  these,  sir,  as 
president '?" 

"That's  fine!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Arty,  whose  satin  dress 
was  carefully  spread  over  her  swelling  knees,  as  she  sat  in 
the  oak  rocker,  like  a  cheerful  bronze  monument  to  Sunday 
propriety.  "But  don't  you  think  he'd  say,  'when  it's 
convenient  to  you,  sir'?" 

"Gee,  that's  dandy!" 

The  play  was  on. 

It  ended  at  seven.  Mr.  Wrenn  took  but  fifteen  minutes 
for  Sunday  supper,  and  wrote  till  one  of  the  morning, 
finishing  the  first  draft  of  his  manuscript. 

Revision  was  delightful,  for  it  demanded  many  con 
ferences  with  Nelly,  sitting  at  the  parlor  table,  with 
shoulders  confidentially  touching.  They  were  the  more 
intimate  because  Tom  had  invited  Mr.  Wrenn,  Nelly,  and 

215 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

Mrs.  Arty  to  the  Grand  Christmas  Eve  Ball  of  the  Cigar- 
Makers'  Union  at  Melpomene  Hall.  Nelly  asked  of  Mr. 
Wrenn,  almost  as  urgently  as  of  Mrs.  Arty,  whether  she 
should  wear  her  new  white  mull  or  her  older  rose-colored 
China  silk. 

Two  days  before  Christmas  he  timidly  turned  over  the 
play  for  typing  to  a  haughty  public  stenographer  who 
looked  like  Lee  Theresa  Zapp.  She  yawned  at  him  when 
he  begged  her  to  be  careful  of  the  manuscript.  The 
gloriously  pink-bound  and  red-underlined  typed  manu 
script  of  the  play  was  mailed  to  Messrs.  Wendelbaum  & 
Schirtz,  play-brokers,  at  6.15  P.M.,  Christmas  Eve. 

The  four  walked  down  Sixth  Avenue  to  the  Cigar- 
Makers'  Ball.  They  made  an  Indian  file  through  the 
Christmas  shopping  crowds,  and  stopped  frequently  and 
noisily  before  the  street-booths'  glamour  of  tinsel  and 
teddy-bears.  They  shrieked  all  with  one  rotund  mad 
laughter  as  Tom  Poppins  capered  over  and  bought  for 
seven  cents  a  pink  bisque  doll,  which  he  pinned  to  the 
lapel  of  his  plaid  overcoat.  They  drank  hot  chocolate 
at  the  Olympic  Confectionery  Store,  pretending  to  each 
other  that  they  were  shivering  with  cold. 

It  was  here  that  Nelly  reached  up  and  patted  Mr. 
Wrenn's  pale-blue  tie  into  better  lines.  In  her  hair  was 
the  scent  which  he  had  come  to  identify  as  hers.  Her 
white  furs  brushed  against  his  overcoat. 

The  cigar-makers,  with  seven  of  them  in  full  evening- 
dress  and  two  in  dinner-coats,  were  already  dancing  on 
the  waxy  floor  of  Melpomene  Hall  when  they  arrived.  A 
full  orchestra  was  pounding  and  scraping  itself  into  an 
hysteria  of  merriment  on  the  platform  under  the  red 
stucco-fronted  balcony,  and  at  the  bar  behind  the  balcony 
there  was  a  spirit  of  beer  and  revelry  by  night. 

Mr.  Wrenn  embarrassedly  passed  large  groups  of  pretty 
girls.  He  felt  very  light  and  insecure  in  his  new  gun- 
metal-finish  pumps  now  that  he  had  taken  off  his  rubbers 

216 


HE    BECOMES    LITERARY 

and  essayed  the  slippery  floor.  He  tried  desperately  not 
to  use  his  handkerchief  too  conspicuously,  though  he  had  a 
cold. 

It  was  not  till  the  choosing  of  partners  for  the  next 
dance,  when  Tom  Poppins  stood  up  beside  Nelly,  their 
arms  swaying  a  little,  their  feet  tapping,  that  Mr.  Wrenn 
quite  got  the  fact  that  he  could  not  dance. 

He  had  casually  said  to  the  others,  a  week  before,  that 
he  knew  only  the  square  dances  which,  as  a  boy,  he  had 
learned  at  parties  at  Parthenon.  But  they  had  reas 
sured  him:  "Oh,  come  on — we'll  teach  you  how  to  dance 
at  the  ball — it  won't  be  formal.  Besides,  we'll  give  you 
some  lessons  before  we  go."  Playwriting  and  playing 
Five  Hundred  had  prevented  their  giving  him  the  lessons. 
So  he  now  sat  terrified  as  a  two-step  began  and  he  saw 
what  seemed  to  be  thousands  of  glittering  youths  and 
maidens  whirling  deftly  in  a  most  involved  course, 
getting  themselves  past  each  other  in  a  way  which  he  was 
sure  he  could  never  imitate.  The  orchestra  yearned  over 
music  as  rich  and  smooth  as  milk  chocolate,  which  made 
him  intensely  lonely  for  Nelly,  though  she  was  only  across 
the  room  from  him. 

Tom  Poppins  immediately  introduced  Nelly  to  a  face 
tious  cigar  salesman,  who  introduced  her  to  three  of  the 
beaux  in  evening  clothes,  while  Tom  led  out  Mrs.  Arty. 
Mr.  Wrenn,  sitting  in  a  row  of  persons  who  were  not  at  all 
interested  in  his  sorrows,  glowered  out  across  the  hall,  and 
wished,  oh!  so  bitterly,  to  flee  home.  Nelly  came  up, 
glowing,  laughing,  with  black-mustached  and  pearl- 
waistcoated  men,  and  introduced  him  to  them,  but  he 
glanced  at  them  disapprovingly;  and  always  she  was 
carried  off  to  dance  again. 

She  found  and  hopefully  introduced  to  Mr.  Wrenn  a 
wallflower  who  came  from  Yonkers  and  had  never  heard 
of  Tom  Poppins  or  aeroplanes  or  Oxford  or  any  other 
topic  upon  which  Mr.  Wrenn  uneasily  tried  to  discourse 
as  he  watched  Nelly  waltz  and  smile  up  at  her  partners. 

217 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

Presently  the  two  sat  silent.  The  wallflower  excused 
herself  and  went  back  to  her  mama  from  Yonkers. 

Mr.  Wrenn  sat  sulking,  hating  his  friends  for  having 
brought  him,  hating  the  sweetness  of  Nelly  Croubel,  and 
saying  to  himself,  "Oh — sure — she  dances  with  all  those 
other  men — me,  Fm  only  the  poor  fool  that  talks  to  her 
when  she's  tired  and  tries  to  cheer  her  up." 

He  did  not  answer  when  Tom  came  and  told  him  a  new 
story  he  had  just  heard  in  the  barroom. 

Once  Nelly  landed  beside  him  and  bubblingly  insisted 
on  his  coming  out  and  trying  to  learn  to  dance.  He 
brightened,  but  shyly  remarked,  "Oh  no,  I  don't  think 
I'd  better."  Just  then  the  blackest-mustached  and  pearl- 
waistcoatedest  of  all  the  cigar  salesmen  came  begging  for 
a  dance,  and  she  was  gone,  with  only:  "Now  get  up  your 
courage.  I'm  going  to  make  you  dance." 

At  the  intermission  he  watched  her  cross  the  floor  with 
the  hateful  cigar  salesman,  slender  in  her  tight  crisp  new 
white  mull,  flourishing  her  fan  and  talking  with  happy 
rapidity.  She  sat  down  beside  him.  He  said  nothing; 
he  still  stared  out  across  the  glassy  floor.  She  peeped  at 
him  curiously  several  times,  and  made  a  low  tapping 
with  her  fan  on  the  side  of  her  chair. 

She  sighed  a  little.  Cautiously,  but  very  casually,  she 
said,  "Aren't  you  going  to  take  me  out  for  some  refresh 
ments,  Mr.  Wrenn?" 

"Oh  sure — I'm  good  enough  to  buy  refreshments  for 
her!"  he  said  to  himself. 

Poor  Mr.  Wrenn;  he  had  not  gone  to  enough  parties  in 
Parthenon,  and  he  hadn't  gone  to  any  in  New  York.  At 
nearly  forty  he  was  just  learning  the  drab  sulkiness  and 
churlishness  and  black  jealousy  of  the  lover.  .  .  .  To  her: 
"Why  didn't  you  go  out  with  that  guy  with  the  black 
mustache?"  He  still  stared  straight  ahead. 

She  was  big-eyed,  a  tear  showing.  "Why,  Billy " 

was  all  she  answered. 

He  clenched  his  hands  to  keep  from  bursting  out  with 

218 


HE    BECOMES    LITERARY 

all  the  pitiful  tears  which  were  surging  in  his  eyes.  But 
he,  said  nothing. 

"Billy,  what " 

He  turned  shyly  around  to  her;  his  hand  touched  hers 
softly. 

"Oh,  Pm  a  beast,"  he  said,  rapidly,  low,  his  undertone 
trembling  to  her  ears  through  the  laughter  of  a  group 
next  to  them.  "I  didn't  mean  that,  but  I  was — I  felt 
like  such  a  mutt — not  being  able  to  dance.  Oh,  Nelly, 

I'm  awfully  sorry.  You  know  I  didn't  mean Come 

on!  Let's  go  get  something  to  eat!" 

As  they  consumed  ice-cream,  fudge,  doughnuts,  and 
chicken  sandwiches  at  the  refreshment  counter  they  were 
very  intimate,  resenting  the  presence  of  others.  Tom  and 
Mrs.  Arty  joined  them.  Tom  made  Nelly  light  her  first 
cigarette.  Mr.  Wrenn  admired  the  shy  way  in  which, 
taking  the  tiniest  of  puffs,  she  kept  drawing  out  her 
cigarette  with  little  pouts  and  nose  wriggles  and  pre 
tended  sneezes,  but  he  felt  a  lofty  gladness  when  she  threw 
it  away  after  a  minute,  declaring  that  she'd  never  smoke 
again,  and  that  she  was  going  to  make  all  three  of  her 
companions  stop  smoking,  "now  that  she  knew  how 
horrid  and  sneezy  it  was,  so  there!" 

With  what  he  intended  to  be  deep  subtlety  Mr.  Wrenn 
drew  her  away  to  the  barroom,  and  these  two  children, 
over  two  glasses  of  ginger-ale,  looked  their  innocent  and 
rustic  love  so  plainly  that  Mrs.  Arty  and  Tom  sneaked 
away.  Nelly  cut  out  a  dance,  which  she  had  promised  to 
a  cigar-maker,  and  started  homeward  with  Mr.  Wrenn. 

"Let's  not  take  a  car — I  want  some  fresh  air  after  that 
smoky  place,"  she  said.  "But  it  was  grand.  .  .  .  Let's 
walk  up  Fifth  Avenue." 

"Fine.  ...Tired,  Nelly?" 

"A  little." 

He  thought  her  voice  somewhat  chilly. 

"Nelly — I'm  so  sorry — I  didn't  really  have  the  chance 
to  tell  you  in  there  how  sorry  I  was  for  the  way  I  spoke  to 

219 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

you.  Gee!  it  was  fierce  of  me — but  I  felt — I  couldn't 
dance,  and — oh " 

No  answer. 

"And  you  did  mind  it,  didn't  you?" 

"Why,  I  didn't  think  you  were  so  very  nice  about  it — 
when  I'd  tried  so  hard  to  have  you  have  a  good  time '* 

"Oh,  Nelly,  I'm  so  sorry " 

There  was  tragedy  in  his  voice.  His  shoulders,  which 
he  always  tried  to  keep  as  straight  as  though  they  were  in 
a  vise  when  he  walked  with  her,  were  drooping. 

She  touched  his  glove.  "Oh  don't,  Billy;  it's  all  right 
now.  I  understand.  Let's  forget " 

"Oh,  you're  too  good  to  me!" 

Silence. 

As  they  crossed  Twenty-third  on  Fifth  Avenue  she 
took  his  arm.  He  squeezed  her  hand.  Suddenly  the 
world  was  all  young  and  beautiful  and  wonderful.  It  was 
the  first  time  in  his  life  that  he  had  ever  walked  thus, 
with  the  arm  of  a  girl  for  whom  he  cared  cuddled  in  his. 
He  glanced  down  at  her  cheap  white  furs.  Snowflakes, 
tremulous  on  the  fur,  were  turned  into  diamond  dust  in 
the  light  from  a  street-lamp  which  showed  as  well  a  tiny 
place  where  her  collar  had  been  torn  and  mended  ever  so 
carefully.  Then,  in  a  millionth  of  a  second,  he  who  had 
been  a  wanderer  in  the  lonely  gray  regions  of  a  detached 
man's  heart  knew  the  pity  of  love,  all  its  emotion,  and 
the  infinite  care  for  the  beloved  that  makes  a  man  of  a 
rusty  sales-clerk.  He  lifted  a  face  of  adoration  to  the 
misty  wonder  of  the  bare  trees,  whose  tracery  of  twigs 
filled  Madison  Square;  to  the  Metropolitan  Tower,  with 
its  vast  upward  stretch  toward  the  ruddy  sky  of  the 
city's  winter  night.  All  these  mysteries  he  knew  and 
sang.  What  he  said  was: 

"Gee,  those  trees  look  like  a  reg'lar  picture!  .  .  .  The 
Tower  just  kind  of  fades  away.  Don't  it?" 

"Yes,  it  is  pretty,"  she  said,  doubtfully,  but  with  a 
pressure  of  his  arm. 

220 


HE    BECOMES    LITERARY 

Then  they  talked  like  a  summer-time  brook,  planning 
that  he  was  to  buy  a  Christmas  bough  of  evergreen,  which 
she  would  smuggle  to  breakfast  in  the  morning.  Through 
their  chatter  persisted  the  new  intimacy  which  had  been 
born  in  the  pain  of  their  misunderstanding. 

On  January  loth  the  manuscript  of  "The  Millionaire's 
Daughter"  was  returned  by  play-brokers  Wendelbaum  & 
Schirtz  with  this  letter: 

DEAR  SIR, — We  regret  to  say  that  we  do  not  find  play  avail 
able.  We  inclose  our  reader's  report  on  the  same.  Also 
inclose  bill  for  ten  dollars  for  reading-fee,  which  kindly  remit 
at  early  convenience. 

He  stood  in  the  hall  at  Mrs.  Arty's  just  before  dinner. 
He  reread  the  letter  and  slowly  opened  the  reader's 
report,  which  announced: 

"Millionaire's  Daughter."  One-act  vile.  Utterly  impos. 
Amateurish  to  the  limit.  Dialogue  sounds  like  burlesque  of 
Laura  Jean  Libbey.  Can  it. 

Nelly  was  coming  down-stairs.  He  handed  her  the 
letter  and  report,  then  tried  to  stick  out  his  jaw.  She 
read  them.  Her  hand  slipped  into  his.  He  went  quickly 
toward  the  basement  and  made  himself  read  the  letter — 
though  not  the  report — to  the  tableful.  He  burned  the 
manuscript  of  his  play  before  going  to  bed.  The  next 
morning  he  waded  into  The  Job  as  he  never  had  before. 
He  was  gloomily  certain  that  he  would  never  get  away 
from  The  Job.  But  he  thought  of  Nelly  a  hundred  times 
a  day  and  hoped  that  sometime,  some  spring  night  of  a 
burning  moon,  he  might  dare  the  great  adventure  and  kiss 

her.   Istra Theoretically,  he  remembered  her  as  a  great 

experience.     But  what  nebulous  bodies  these  theories  are! 

That  slow  but  absolutely  accurate  Five-Hundred 
player,  Mr.  William  Wrenn,  known  as  Billy,  glanced 
triumphantly  at  Miss  Proudfoot,  who  was  his  partner 

221 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

against  Mrs.  Arty  and  James  T.  Duncan,  the  traveling-man, 
on  that  night  of  late  February.  His  was  the  last  bid  in 
the  crucial  hand  of  the  rubber  game.  The  others  waited 
respectfully.  Confidently,  he  bid  "Nine  on  no  trump." 

"Good  Lord,  Bill!"  exclaimed  James  T<  Duncan. 

"I'll  make  it." 

And  he  did.  He  arose  a  victor.  There  was  no  un 
easiness,  but  rather  all  the  social  polish  of  Mrs.  Arty's  at 
its  best,  in  his  manner,  as  he  crossed  to  Mrs.  Ebbitt's  chair 
and  asked:  "How  is  Mr.  Ebbitt  to-night?  Pretty 
rheumatic?"  Miss  Proudfoot  offered  him  a  lime  tablet, 
and  he  accepted  it  judicially.  "I  believe  these  tablets 
are  just  about  as  good  as  Park  &  Tilford's,"  he  said, 
cocking  his  head.  "Say,  Dunk,  I'll  match  you  to  see 
who  rushes  a  growler  of  beer.  Tom  '11  be  here  pretty 
soon — store  ought  to  be  closed  by  now.  We'll  have  some 
ready  for  him." 

"Right,  Bill,"  agreed  James  T.  Duncan. 

Mr.  Wrenn  lost.  He  departed,  after  secretively  ob 
taining  not  one,  but  two  pitchers,  in  one  of  which  he  got 
a  "pint  of  dark"  and  in  the  other  a  surprise.  He  bawled 
up-stairs  to  Nelly,  "Come  on  down,  Nelly,  can't  you? 
Got  a  growler  of  ice-cream  soda  for  the  ladies!" 

It  is  true  that  when  Tom  arrived  and  fell  to  conversa 
tional  blows  with  James  T.  Duncan  over  the  merits  of  a 
Tom  Collins  Mr.  Wrenn  was  not  brilliant,  for  the  reason 
that  he  took  Tom  Collins  to  be  a  man  instead  of  the 
drink  he  really  is. 

Yet,  as  they  went  up-stairs  Miss  Proudfoot  said  to 
Nelly:  "Mr.  Wrenn  is  quiet,  but  I  do  think  in  some  ways 
he's  one  of  the  nicest  men  I've  seen  in  the  house  for  years. 
And  he  is  so  earnest.  And  I  think  he'll  make  a  good 
pinochle  player,  besides  Five  Hundred." 

"Yes,"  said  Nelly. 

"I  think  he  was  a  little  shy  at  first.  ...  7  was  always 
shy.  .  .  .  But  he  likes  us,  and  I  like  folks  that  like  folks." 

"Yes!"  said  Nelly. 


XVII 

HE    IS    BLOWN    BY  THE   WHIRLWIND 

"He  was  blown  by  the  whirlwind  and  followed  a  wandering 
flame  through  perilous  seas  to  a  happy  shore." — Quoth  Francois. 

ON  an  April  Monday  evening,  when  a  small  moon 
passed  shyly  over  the  city  and  the  streets  were 
filled  with  the  sound  of  hurdy-gurdies  and  the  spring 
cries  of  dancing  children,  Mr.  Wrenn  pranced  down  to  the 
basement  dining-room  early,  for  Nelly  Croubel  would  be 
down  there  talking  to  Mrs.  Arty,  and  he  gaily  wanted 
to  make  plans  for  a  picnic  to  occur  the  coming  Sunday. 
He  had  a  shy  unacknowledged  hope  that  he  might  kiss 
Nelly  after  such  a  picnic;  he  even  had  the  notion  that  he 
might  some  day — well,  other  fellows  had  been  married; 
why  not? 

Miss  Mary  Proudfoot  was  mending  a  rent  in  the  current 
table-cloth  with  delicate  swift  motions  of  her  silvery- 
skinned  hands.  She  informed  him:  "Mr.  Duncan  will 
be  back  from  his  Southern  trip  in  five  days.  We'll  have 
to  have  a  grand  closing  progressive  Five  Hundred  tourna 
ment."  Mr.  Wrenn  was  too  much  absorbed  in  wondering 
whether  Miss  Proudfoot  would  make  some  of  her  cele 
brated — and  justly  celebrated — minced-ham  sandwiches 
for  the  picnic  to  be  much  interested.  He  was  not  much 
more  interested  when  she  said,  "Mrs.  Ferrard's  got  a 
letter  or  something  for  you." 

Then,  as  dinner  began,  Mrs.  Ferrard  rushed  in  dramatic 
ally  and  said,  "There's  a  telegram  for  you,  Mr.  Wrenn!" 

223 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

Was  it  death?  Whose  death?  The  table  panted,  Mr. 
Wrenn  with  them.  .  .  .  That's  what  a  telegram  meant  to 
them. 

Their  eyes  were  like  a  circle  of  charging  bayonets  as  he 
opened  and  read  the  message — a  ship's  wireless. 

Meet  me  Hesperida. — ISTRA. 

"It's  just — a — a  business  message,"  he  managed  to  say, 
and  splashed  his  soup.  This  was  not  the  place  to  take  the 
feelings  out  of  his  thumping  heart  and  examine  them. 

Dinner  was  begun.  Picnics  were  conversationally  con 
sidered  in  all  their  more  important  phases — historical, 
dietetical,  and  social.  Mr.  Wrenn  talked  much  and  a 
little  wildly.  After  dinner  he  galloped  out  to  buy  a  paper. 
The  S.S.  Hesperida  was  due  at  ten  next  morning. 

It  was  an  evening  of  frightened  confusion.  He  tottered 
along  Lexington  Avenue  on  a  furtive  walk.  He  knew  only 
that  he  was  very  fond  of  Nelly,  yet  pantingly  eager  to  see 
Istra.  He  damned  himself — "damned"  is  literal — every 
other  minute  for  a  cad,  a  double-faced  traitor,  and  all  the 
other  horrifying  things  a  man  is  likely  to  declare  himself  to 
be  for  making  the  discovery  that  two  women  may  be 
different  and  yet  equally  likable.  And  every  other 
minute  he  reveled  in  an  adventurous  gladness  that  he  was 
going  to  see  Istra — actually,  incredibly  going  to  see  her, 
just  the  next  day!  He  returned  to  find  Nelly  sitting  on  the 
steps  of  Mrs.  Arty's. 

"Hello." 

"Hello." 

Both  good  sound  observations,  and  all  they  could  say 
for  a  time,  while  Mr.  Wrenn  examined  the  under  side 
of  the  iron  steps  rail  minutely. 

"Billy — was  it  something  serious,  the  telegram?" 

"No,  it  was—  Miss  Nash,  the  artist  I  told  you 
about,  asked  me  to  meet  her  at  the  boat.  I  suppose  she 
wants  me  to  help  her  with  her  baggage  and  the  customs 
and  all  them  things.  She's  just  coming  from  Paris." 

224 


THE   WHIRLWIND 

"Oh  yes,  I  see." 

So  lacking  in  jealousy  was  Nelly  that  Mr.  Wrenn  was 
disappointed,  though  he  didn't  know  why.  It  always 
hurts  to  have  one's  thunderous  tragedies  turn  out  realistic 
dialogues. 

"I  wonder  if  you  would  like  to  meet  her.  She's  awful 
well  educated,  but  I  dunno — maybe  she'd  strike  you  as 

kind  of  snobbish.  But  she  dresses I  don't  think  I 

ever  seen  anybody  so  elegant.  In  dressing,  I  mean. 
Course" — hastily — "she's  got  money,  and  so  she  can 
afford  to.  But  she's — oh,  awful  nice,  some  ways.  I  hope 
you  like —  I  hope  she  won't " 

"Oh,  I  sha'n't  mind  if  she's  a  snob.  Of  course  a  lady 
gets  used  to  that,  working  in  a  department  store,"  she 
said,  chillily;  then  repented  swiftly  and  begged:  "Oh,  I 
didn't  mean  to  be  snippy,  Billy.  Forgive  me!  I'm  sure 
Miss  Nash  will  be  real  nice.  Does  she  live  here  in  New 
York?" 

"No — in  California.  ...  I  don't  know  how  long  she's 
going  to  stay  here." 

"Well — well — hum-m-m.  I'm  getting  so  sleepy.  I 
guess  I'd  better  go  up  to  bed.  Good  night." 

Uneasy  because  he  was  away  from  the  office,  displeased 
because  he  had  to  leave  his  beloved  letters  to  the  Southern 
trade,  angry  because  he  had  had  difficulty  in  getting  a  pass 
to  the  wharf,  and  furious,  finally,  because  he  hadn't  slept, 
Mr.  Wrenn  nursed  all  these  cumulative  emotions  atten 
tively  and  waited  for  the  coming  of  the  Hesperida.  He 
was  wondering  if  he'd  want  to  see  Istra  at  all.  He  couldn't 
remember  just  how  she  looked.  Would  he  like  her? 

The  great  steamer  swung  side-to  and  was  coaxed  along 
side  the  wharf.  Peering  out  between  rows  of  crowding 
shoulders,  Mr.  Wrenn  coldly  inspected  the  passengers  lin 
ing  the  decks.  Istra  was  not  in  sight.  Then  he  knew  that 
he  was  wildly  agitated  about  her.  Suppose  something 
had  happened  to  her! 

225 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

The  smallish  man  who  had  been  edging  into  the  crowd 
so  politely  suddenly  dashed  to  the  group  forming  at  the 
gang-plank  and  pushed  his  way  rudely  into  the  front  rank. 
His  elbow  dug  into  the  proper  waistcoat  of  a  proper  plump 
old  gentleman,  but  he  didn't  know  it.  He  stood  grasping 
the  rope  rail  of  the  plank,  gazing  goggle-eyed  while  the 
plank  was  lifted  to  the  steamer's  deck  and  the  long  line  of 
smiling  and  waving  passengers  disembarked.  Then  he 
saw  her — tall,  graceful,  nonchalant,  uninterested,  in  a  smart 
check  suit  with  a  lively  hat  of  black  straw,  carrying  a 
new  Gladstone  bag. 

He  stared  at  her.  "Gee!"  he  gasped.  "I'm  crazy 
about  her.  I  am,  all  right." 

She  saw  him,  and  their  smiles  of  welcome  made  them 
one.  She  came  from  the  plank  and  hastily  kissed  him. 

"Really  here!"  she  laughed. 

"Well,  well,  well,  well!     I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!" 

"Glad  to  see  you,  Mouse  dear." 

"Have  good  tr " 

"  Don't  ask  me  about  it !  There  was  a  married  man  sans 
wife  who  persecuted  me  all  the  way  over.  I'm  glad  you 
aren't  going  to  fall  in  love  with  me." 

"Why— uh " 

"Let's  hustle  over  and  get  through  the  customs  as  soon 
as  we  can.  Where's  N?  Oh,  how  clever  of  it,  it's  right 
by  M.  There's  one  of  my  trunks  already.  How  are  you, 
Mouse  dear?" 

But  she  didn't  seem  really  to  care  so  very  much,  and 
the  old  bewilderment  she  always  caused  was  over  him. 

"It  is  good  to  get  back  after  all,  and — Mouse  dear,  I 
know  you  won't  mind  finding  me  a  place  to  live  the  next 
few  days,  will  you?"  She  quite  took  it  for  granted.  "We'll 
find  a  place  this  morning,  nest-ce  -pas?  Not  too  expensive. 
I've  got  just  about  enough  to  get  back  to  California." 

Man  fashion,  he  saw  with  acute  clearness  the  pile  of 
work  on  his  desk,  and,  man  fashion,  responded,  "No; 
be  glad  tuh." 

226 


THE   WHIRLWIND 

"How  about  the  place  where  you're  living?  You  spoke 
about  its  being  so  clean  and  all." 

The  thought  of  Nelly  and  Istra  together  frightened  him. 

"Why,  I  don't  know  as  you'd  like  it  so  very  much." 

"Oh,  it  '11  be  all  right  for  a  few  days,  anyway.  Is  there 
a  room  vacant." 

He  was  sulky  about  it.     He  saw  much  trouble  ahead. 

"Why,  yes,  I  suppose  there  is." 

"Mouse  dear!"  Istra  plumped  down  on  a  trunk  in  the 
confused  billows  of  incoming  baggage,  customs  officials, 
and  indignant  passengers  that  surged  about  them  on  the 
rough  floor  of  the  vast  dock-house.  She  stared  up  at  him 
with  real  sorrow  in  her  fine  eyes. 

"Why,  Mouse!  I  thought  you'd  be  glad  to  see  me. 
I've  never  rowed  with  you,  have  I?  I've  tried  not  to  be 
temperamental  with  you.  That's  why  I  wired  you,  when 
there  are  others  I've  known  for  years." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  mean  to  seem  grouchy;  I  didn't!  I  just 
wondered  if  you'd  like  the  house." 

He  could  have  knelt  in  repentance  before  his  goddess, 
what  time  she  was  but  a  lonely  girl  in  the  clatter  of  New 
York.  He  went  on: 

\    "And  we've  got  kind  of  separated,  and  I  didn't  know 

But  I  guess  I'll  always — oh — kind  of  worship  you." 

"It's  all  right,  Mouse.     It's Here's  the  customs 

men." 

Now  Istra  Nash  knew  perfectly  that  the  customs 
persons  were  not  ready  to  examine  her  baggage  as  yet. 
But  the  discussion  was  ended,  and  they  seemed  to  under 
stand  each  other. 

"Gee,  there's  a  lot  of  rich  Jew  ladies  coming  back  this 
time!"  said  he. 

"Yes.  They  had  diamonds  three  times  a  day,"  she 
assented. 

"Gee,  this  is  a  big  place!" 

"Yes." 

So  did  they  testify  to  fixity  of  friendship  till  they 

227 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

reached  the  house  and  Istra  was  welcomed  to  "that  Ted- 
dem's"  room  as  a  new  guest. 

Dinner  began  with  the  ceremony  due  Mrs.  Arty. 
There  was  no  lack  of  the  sacred  old  jokes.  Tom  Poppins 
did  not  fail  to  bellow  "Bring  on  the  dish-water,"  nor  Miss 
Mary  Proudfoot  to  cheep  demurely  "Don't  y'  knaow"  in 
a  tone  which  would  have  been  recognized  as  fascinatingly 
English  anywhere  on  the  American  stage.  Then  the  talk 
stopped  dead  as  Istra  Nash  stood  agaze  in  the  doorway — 
pale  and  intolerant,  her  red  hair  twisted  high  on  her  head, 
tall  and  slim  and  uncorseted  in  a  gray  tight-fitting  gown. 
Every  head  turned  as  on  a  pivot,  first  to  Istra,  then  to 
Mr.  Wrenn.  He  blushed  and  bowed  as  if  he  had  been 
called  on  for  a  speech,  stumblingly  arose,  and  said: 
"Uh — uh — uh — you  met  Mrs.  Ferrard,  didn't  you,  Istra? 
She'll  introduce  you  to  the  rest." 

He  sat  down,  wondering  why  the  deuce  he'd  stood  up, 
and  unhappily  realized  that  Nelly  was  examining  Istra 
and  himself  with  cool  hostility.  In  a  flurry  he  glowered  at 
Istra  as  she  nonchalantly  sat  down  opposite  him,  beside 
Mrs.  Arty,  and  incuriously  unfolded  her  napkin.  He 
thought  that  in  her  cheerful  face  there  was  an  expression 
of  devilish  amusement. 

He  blushed.  He  furiously  buttered  his  bread  as  Mrs. 
Arty  remarked  to  the  assemblage: 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  want  you  all  to  meet  Miss 
Istra  Nash.  Miss  Nash — you've  met  Mr.  Wrenn;  Miss 
Nelly  Croubel,  our  baby;  Tom  Poppins,  the  great  Five- 
Hundred  player;  Mrs.  Ebbitt,  Mr.  Ebbitt,  Miss  Proud- 
foot." 

Istra  Nash  lifted  her  bowed  eyes  with  what  seemed  shy 
ness,  hesitated,  said  "Thank  you"  in  a  clear  voice  with  a 
precise  pronunciation,  and  returned  to  her  soup,  as  though 
her  pleasant  communion  with  it  had  been  unpleasantly 
interrupted. 

The  others  began  talking  and  eating  very  fast  and 

228 


THE    WHIRLWIND 

rather  noisily.  Miss  Mary  Proudfoot's  thin  voice  pierced 
the  clamor: 

"I  hear  you  have  just  come  to  New  York,  Miss  Nash." 

"Yes." 

"Is  this  your  first  visit  to " 

"No." 

Miss  Proudfoot  rancorously  took  a  long  drink  of  water. 

Nelly  attempted,  bravely: 

"Do  you  like  New  York,  Miss  Nash?" 

"Yes." 

Nelly  and  Miss  Proudfoot  and  Tom  Poppins  began  dis 
cussing  shoe-stores,  all  at  once  and  very  rapidly,  while 
hot  and  uncomfortable  Mr.  Wrenn  tried  to  think  of  some 
thing  to  say.  .  .  .  Good  Lord,  suppose  Istra  "queered"  him 
at  Mrs.  Arty's!  .  .  .  Then  he  was  angry  at  himself  and  all 
of  them  for  not  appreciating  her.  How  exquisite  she 
looked,  with  her  tired  white  face! 

As  the  soup-plates  were  being  removed  by  Annie,  the 
maid,  with  an  elaborate  confusion  and  a  general  passing  of 
plates  down  the  line,  Istra  Nash  peered  at  the  maid 
petulantly.  Mrs.  Arty  frowned,  then  grew  artificially 
pleasant  and  said: 

"Miss  Nash  has  just  come  back  from  Paris.  She's  a 
regular  European  traveler,  just  like  Mr.  Wrenn." 

Mrs.  Samuel  Ebbitt  piped:  "Mr.  Ebbitt  was  to 
Europe.  In  1882." 

"No  'twa'n't,  Fannie;  'twas  in  1881,"  complained 
Mr.  Ebbitt. 

Miss  Nash  waited  for  the  end  of  this  interruption  as 
though  it  were  a  noise  which  merely  had  to  be  endured, 
like  the  Elevated. 

Twice  she  drew  in  her  breath  to  speak,  and  the  whole 
table  laid  its  collective  knife  and  fork  down  to  listen.  All 
she  said  was: 

"Oh,  will  you  pardon  me  if  I  speak  of  it  now,  Mrs. 
Ferrard,  but  would  you  mind  letting  me  have  my  break 
fast  in  my  room  to-morrow?  About  nine?  Just  some- 

16  "9 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

thing  simple — a  cantaloupe  and  some  shirred  eggs  and 
chocolate?" 

"Oh  no;  why,  yes,  certainly,"  mumbled  Mrs.  Arty, 
while  the  table  held  its  breaths  and  underneath  them 
gasped: 

"Chocolate!" 

"Acanteloupe!" 

"Shirred  eggs!" 

"In  her  room — at  nine!" 

All  this  was  very  terrible  to  Mr.  Wrenn.  He  found 
himself  in  the  position  of  a  man  scheduled  to  address  the 
Brewers'  Association  and  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  at  the  same 
hour.  Valiantly  he  attempted: 

"Miss  Nash  oughta  be  a  good  person  for  our  picnics. 
She's  a  regular  shark  for  outdoor  tramping." 

"Oh  yes,  Mr.  Wrenn  and  I  tramped  most  all  night  in 
England  one  time,"  said  Istra,  innocently. 

The  eyes  of  the  table  asked  Mr.  Wrenn  what  he  meant 
by  it.  He  tried  to  look  at  Nelly,  but  something  hurt 
inside  him. 

"Yes,"  he  mumbled.     "Quite  a  long  walk." 

Miss  Mary  Proudfoot  tried  again: 

"Is  it  pleasant  to  study  in  Paris?  Mrs.  Arty  said  you 
were  an  artist." 

"No." 

Then  they  were  all  silent,  and  the  rest  of  the  dinner 
Mr.  Wrenn  alternately  discussed  Olympia  Johns  with 
Istra  and  picnics  with  Nelly.  There  was  an  undertone 
of  pleading  in  his  voice  which  made  Nelly  glance  at  him 
and  even  become  kind.  With  quiet  insistence  she  dragged 
Istra  into  a  discussion  of  rue  de  la  Paix  fashions  which 
nearly  united  the  shattered  table  and  won  Mr.  Wrenn's 
palpitating  thankfulness. 

After  dessert  Istra  slowly  drew  a  plain  gold  cigarette- 
case  from  a  brocade  bag  of  silver}7"  gray.  She  took  out  a 
match  and  a  thin  Russian  cigarette,  which  she  carefully 
lighted.  She  sat  smoking  in  one  of  her  best  attitudes, 

230 


THE    WHIRLWIND 

pointed  elbows  on  the  table,  coolly  contemplating  a  huge 
picture  called  "Hunting  the  Stag"  on  the  wall  behind 
Mr.  Wrenn. 

Mrs.  Arty  snapped  to  the  servant,  "Annie,  bring  me  my 
cigarettes."  But  Mrs.  Arty  always  was  penitent  when  she 
had  been  nasty,  and — though  Istra  Nash  did  not  at  once 
seem  to  know  that  the  landlady  had  been  nasty — Mrs.  Arty 
invited  her  up  to  the  parlor  for  after-dinner  so  cordially 
that  Istra  could  but  grant  "Perhaps  I  will,"  and  she  even 
went  so  far  as  to  say,  "I  think  you're  all  to  be  envied, 
having  such  a  happy  family." 

"Yes,  that's  so,"  reflected  Mrs.  Arty. 

"Yes,"  added  Mr.  Wrenn. 

And  Nelly:   "That's  so." 

The  whole  table  nodded  gravely,  "Yes,  that's  so." 

"I'm  sure" — Istra  smiled  at  Mrs.  Arty — "that  it's 
because  a  woman  is  running  things.  Now  think  what 
cat-and-dog  lives  you'd  lead  if  Mr.  Wrenn  or  Mr. — 
Popple,  was  it? — were  ruling." 

They  applauded.  They  felt  that  she  had  been  hu 
morous.  She  was  again  and  publicly  invited  up  to  the 
parlor,  and  she  came,  though  she  said,  rather  shortly, 
that  she  didn't  play  Five  Hundred,  but  only  bumblepuppy 
bridge,  a  variety  of  whist  which  Mr.  Wrenn  instantly  re 
solved  to  learn.  She  reclined  ("reclined"  is  perfectly 
accurate)  on  the  red-leather  couch,  among  the  pillows,  and 
smoked  two  cigarettes,  relapsing  into  "No?'"s  for  con 
versation. 

Mr.  Wrenn  said  to  himself,  almost  spitefully,  as  she 
snubbed  Nelly,  "Too  good  for  us,  is  she?"  But  he 
couldn't  keep  away  from  her.  The  realization  that  Istra 
was  in  the  room  made  him  forget  most  of  his  melds  at 
pinochle;  and  when  Miss  Proudfoot  inquired  his  opinion 
as  to  whether  the  coming  picnic  should  be  held  on  Staten 
Island  or  the  Palisades  he  said,  vaguely,  "Yes,  I  guess 
that  would  be  better." 

For  he  was  wanting  to  sit  down  beside  Istra  Nash, 

231 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

just  be  near  her;  he  had  to  be!  So  he  ventured  over  and 
was  instantly  regarding  all  the  rest  as  outsiders  whom 
his  wise  comrade  and  himself  were  studying. 

"Tell  me,  Mouse  dear,  why  do  you  like  the  people 
here?  The  peepul,  I  mean.  They  don't  seem  so  very 
remarkable.  Enlighten  poor  Istra." 

"Well,  they're  awful  kind.  I've  always  lived  in  a  house 
where  the  folks  didn't  hardly  know  each  other  at  all, 
except  Mrs.  Zapp — she  was  the  landlady — and  I  didn't 
like  her  very  much.  But  here  Tom  Poppins  and  Mrs. 
Arty  and — the  rest — they  really  like  folks,  and  they  make 
it  just  like  a  home.  .  .  .  Miss  Croubel  is  a  very  nice  girl. 
She  works  for  Wanamacy's — she  has  quite  a  big  job  there. 
She  is  assistant  buyer  in  the — 

He  stopped  in  horror.  He  had  nearly  said  "in  the 
lingery  department."  He  changed  it  to  "in  the  clothing 
department,"  and  went  on,  doubtfully:  "Mr.  Duncan  is 
a  traveling-man.  He's  away  on  a  trip." 

"Which  one  do  you  play  with?  So  Nelly  likes  to — well, 
make  b'lieve — 'magine?" 

"How  did  you " 

"Oh,  I  watched  her  looking  at  you.  I  think  she's  a 
terribly  nice  pink-face.  And  just  now  you're  comparing 
her  and  me." 

"Gee!"  he  said. 

She  was  immensely  pleased  with  herself.  "Tell  me, 
what  do  these  people  think  about;  at  least,  what  do  you 
talk  about?" 

"Say!" 

"'S-s-s-h!     Not  so  loud,  my  dear." 

"Say,  I  know  how  you  mean.  You  feel  something  like 
what  I  did  in  England.  You  can't  get  next  to  what  the 
folks  are  thinking,  and  it  makes  you  sort  of  lonely." 

"Well,  I " 

Just  then  Tom  Poppins  rolled  jovially  up  to  the  couch. 
He  had  carried  his  many  and  perspiring  pounds  over  to 
Third  Avenue  because  Miss  Proudfoot  reflected,  "I've 

232 


THE   WHIRLWIND 

got  a  regular  sweet  tooth  to-night."  He  stood  before 
Istra  and  Mr.  Wrenn  theatrically  holding  out  a  bag  of 
chocolate  drops  in  one  hand  and  peanut  brittle  in  the 
other;  and  grandiloquently: 

"Which  shall  it  be,  your  Highness?  Nobody  loves  a 
fat  man,  so  he  has  to  buy  candy  so's  they'll  let  him  stick 
around.  Le's  see;  you  take  chocolates,  Bill.  Name  your 
drink,  Miss  Nash." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  gravely  and  politely — too  gravely 
and  politely.  She  didn't  seem  to  consider  him  a  nice 
person. 

" Neither,  thank  you,"  sharply,  as  he  still  stood  there. 
He  moved  away,  hurt,  bewildered. 

Istra  was  going  on,  "I  haven't  been  here  long  enough  to 

be  lonely  yet,  but  in  any  case "  when  Mr.  Wrenn 

interrupted: 

"You've  hurt  Tom's  feelings  by  not  taking  any  candy; 
and,  gee,  he's  awful  kind!" 

"Have  I?"  mockingly. 

"Yes,  you  have.  And  there  ain't  any  too  many  kind 
people  in  this  world." 

"Oh  yes,  of  course  you're  right.     I  am  sorry,  really  I 


am." 


She  dived  after  Tom's  retreat  and  cheerfully  addressed 
him: 

"Oh,  I  do  want  some  of  those  chocolates.  Will  you  let 
me  change  my  mind?  Please  do." 

"Yes  ma'am,  you  sure  can!"  said  broad  Tom,  all  one 
pleased  chuckle,  poking  out  the  two  bags. 

Istra  stopped  beside  the  Five-Hundred  table  to  smile 
in  a  lordly  way  down  at  Mrs.  Arty  and  say,  quite  humanly: 

"I'm  so  sorry  I  can't  play  a  decent  game  of  cards.  I'm 
afraid  I'm  too  stupid  to  learn.  You  are  very  lucky,  I 
think." 

Mr.  Wrenn  on  the  couch  was  horribly  agitated.  .  .  . 
Wasn't  Istra  coming  back? 

She  was.  She  detached  herself  from  the  hubbub  of 

233 


OUR   MR.   WRENN 

invitations  to  learn  to  play  Five  Hundred  and  wandered 
back  to  the  couch,  murmuring:  "Was  bad  Istra  good? 
Am  I  forgiven?  Mouse  dear,  I  didn't  mean  to  be  rude 
to  your  friends/' 

As  the  bubbles  rise  through  water  in  a  cooking-pot,  as 
the  surface  writhes,  and  then,  after  the  long  wait,  suddenly 
the  water  is  aboil,  so  was  the  emotion  of  Mr.  Wrenn  now 
that  Istra,  the  lordly,  had  actually  done  something  he 
suggested. 

"Istra—  That  was  all  he  could  say,  but  from  his 

eyes  had  gone  all  reserve. 

Her  glance  back  was  as  frank  as  his — only  it  had  more 
of  the  mother  in  it;  it  was  like  a  kindly  pat  on  the  head; 
and  she  was  the  mother  as  she  mused: 

"So  you  have  missed  me,  then?" 

"Missed  you " 

"Did  you  think  of  me  after  you  came  here?  Oh,  I 
know — I  was  forgotten;  poor  Istra  abdicates  to  the 
pretty  pink-face." 

"Oh,  Istra,  don't.  I — can't  we  just  go  out  for  a  little 
walk  so — so  we  can  talk?" 

"Why,  we  can  talk  here." 

"Oh,  gee! — there's  so  many  people  around.  .  .  .  Golly! 
when  I  came  back  to  America — gee! — I  couldn't  hardly 
sleep  nights " 

From  across  the  room  came  the  boisterous,  somewhat 
coarse-timbred  voice  of  Tom,  speaking  to  Nelly: 

"Oh  yes,  of  course  you  think  you're  the  only  girl  that 
ever  seen  a  vodville  show.  We  ain't  never  seen  a  vodville 
show.  Oh  no!" 

Nelly  and  Miss  Proudfoot  dissolved  in  giggles  at  the  wit. 

Mr.  Wrenn  gazed  at  them,  detached;  these  were  not  his 
people,  and  with  startled  pride  he  glanced  at  Istra's  face, 
delicately  carven  by  thought,  as  he  stumbled  hotly  on. 

" just  couldn't  sleep  nights  at  all.  .  .  .  Then  I  got  on 

the  job.  .  .  ." 

"Let's  see,  you're  still  with  that  same  company?" 

234 


THE    WHIRLWIND 

"Yes.  Souvenir  and  Art  Novelty  Company.  And  I 
got  awfully  on  the  job  there,  and  so  I  managed  to  forget 
for  a  little  while  and— 

"So  you  really  do  like  me — even  after  I  was  so  beastly 
to  you  in  England." 

"Oh,  that  wasn't  nothing.  .  .  .  But  I  was  always  think 
ing  of  you,  even  when  I  was  on  the  job 

"It's  gratifying  to  have  some  one  continue  taking  me 
seriously.  .  .  .  Really,  dear,  I  do  appreciate  it.  But  you 
mustn't — you  mustn't " 

"Oh,  gee!  I  just  can't  get  over  it — you  here  by  me 
— ain't  it  curious!  .  .  ."  Then  he  persisted  with  the  tale 
of  his  longing,  which  she  had  so  carefully  interrupted: 
"The  people  here  are  awful  kind  and  good,  and  you  can 
bank  on  'em.  But — oh " 

From  across  the  room,  Tom's  pretended  jeers,  lighted  up 
with  Miss  Proudfoot's  giggles,  as  paper  lanterns  illumine 
Coney  Island.  From  Tom: 

"Yes,  you're  a  hot  dancer,  all  right.  I  suppose  you  can 
do  the  Boston  and  all  them  swell  dances.  Wah-h-h-h-h  I" 

—but  Istra,  oh,  gee!  you're  like  poetry — like  all 
them  things  a  feller  can't  get  but  he  tries  to  when  he  reads 
Shakespeare  and  all  those  poets." 

"Oh,  dear  boy,  you  mustn't!  We  will  be  good  friends. 
I  do  appreciate  having  some  one  care  whether  I'm  alive 
or  not.  But  I  thought  it  was  all  understood  that  we 
weren't  to  take  playing  together  seriously;  that  it  was  to 
be  merely  playing — nothing  more." 

"But,  anyway,  you  will  let  me  play  with  you  here  in 
New  York  as  much  as  I  can?  Oh,  come  on,  let's  go  for  a 
walk — let's — let's  go  to  a  show." 

"I'm  awf'ly  sorry,  but  I  promised — a  man's  going  to 
call  for  me,  and  we're  going  to  a  stupid  studio  party  on 
Bryant  Park.  Bore,  isn't  it,  the  day  of  landing?  And 
poor  Istra  dreadfully  landsick." 

235 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

:Oh,  then,"  hopefully,  "don't  go.     Let's- 


"I'm  sorry,  Mouse  dear,  but  I'm  afraid  I  can't  break 
the  date.  .  .  .  Fact,  I  must  go  up  and  primp  now " 

"Don't  you  care  a  bit?"  he  said,  sulkily. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course.  But  you  wouldn't  have  Istra 
disappoint  a  nice  Johnny  after  he's  bought  him  a  cunnin* 
new  weskit,  would  you?  .  .  .  Good  night,  dear."  She 
smiled — the  mother  smile — and  was  gone  with  a  lively 
good  night  to  the  room  in  general. 

Nelly  went  up  to  bed  early.  She  was  tired,  she  said. 
He  had  no  chance  for  a  word  with  her.  He  sat  on  the 
steps  outside  alone  a  long  time.  Sometimes  he  yearned 
for  a  sight  of  Istra's  ivory  face.  Sometimes,  with  a  fierce 
compassion  that  longed  to  take  the  burden  from  her,  he 
pictured  Nelly  working  all  day  in  the  rushing  department 
store — on  which  the  fetid  city  summer  would  soon  descend. 

They  did  have  their  walk  the  next  night,  Istra  and  Mr. 
Wrenn,  but  Istra  kept  the  talk  to  laughing  burlesques  of 
their  tramp  in  England.  Somehow — he  couldn't  tell  ex 
actly  why — he  couldn't  seem  to  get  in  all  the  remarks  he 
had  inside  him  about  how  much  he  had  missed  her. 

Wednesday — Thursday — Friday;  he  saw  her  only  at 
one  dinner,  or  on  the  stairs,  departing  volubly  with  clever- 
looking  men  in  evening  clothes  to  taxis  waiting  before  the 
house. 

Nelly  was  very  pleasant;  just  that — pleasant.  She 
pleasantly  sat  as  his  partner  at  Five  Hundred,  and 
pleasantly  declined  to  go  to  the  moving  pictures  with 
him.  She  was  getting  more  and  more  tired,  staying  till 
seven  at  the  store,  preparing  what  she  called  "special 
stunts"  for  the  summer  white  sale.  Friday  evening  he 
saw  her  soft  fresh  lips  drooping  sadly  as  she  toiled  up  the 
front  steps  before  dinner.  She  went  to  bed  at  eight,  at 
which  time  Istra  was  going  out  to  dinner  with  a  thin, 
hatchet-faced  sarcastic-looking  man  in  a  Norfolk  jacket 

236 


THE    WHIRLWIND 

and  a  fluffy  black  tie.  Mr.  Wrenn  resented  the  Norfolk 
jacket.  Of  course,  the  kingly  men  in  evening  dress 
would  be  expected  to  take  Istra  away  from  him,  but  a 
Norfolk  jacket —  He  did  not  call  it  that.  Though  he 
had  worn  one  in  the  fair  village  of  Aengusmere,  it  was 
still  to  him  a  "coat  with  a  belt." 

He  thought  of  Nelly  all  evening.  He  heard  her — there 
on  the  same  floor  with  him — talking  to  Miss  Proudfoot, 
who  stood  at  Nelly's  door,  three  hours  after  she  was  sup 
posed  to  be  asleep. 

"No,"  Nelly  was  saying  with  evidently  fictitious  cheer 
fulness,  "no,  it  was  just  a  little  headache.  .  .  .  It's  much 
better.  I  think  I  can  sleep  now.  Thank  you  very  much 
for  coming." 

Nelly  hadn't  told  Mr.  Wrenn  that  she  had  a  severe 
headache — she  who  had  once,  a  few  weeks  before,  run 
to  him  with  a  cut  in  her  soft  small  finger,  demanding  that 
he  bind  it  up. ...  He  went  slowly  to  bed. 

He  had  lain  awake  half  an  hour  before  his  agony  so 
overpowered  him  that  he  flung  out  of  bed.  He  crouched 
low  by  the  bed,  like  a  child,  his  legs  curled  under  him,  the 
wooden  sideboard  pressing  into  his  chest  in  one  long  line 
of  hot  pain,  while  he  prayed: 

"O  God,  O  God,  forgive  me,  forgive  me,  oh,  forgive  me! 
Here  I  been  forgetting  Nelly  (and  I  love  her)  and  compar 
ing  her  with  Istra  and  not  appreciating  her,  and  Nelly 

always  so  sweet  to  me  and  trusting  me  so O  God, 

keep  me  away  from  wickedness!" 

He  huddled  there  many  minutes,  praying,  the  scorch 
ing  pressure  of  the  bedside  growing  more  painful.  All  the 
while  the  camp-fire  he  had  shared  with  Istra  was  burning 
within  his  closed  eyes,  and  Istra  was  visibly  lording  it  in  a 
London  flat  filled  with  clever  people,  and  he  was  passion 
ately  aware  that  the  line  of  her  slim  breast  was  like  the 
lip  of  a  shell;  the  line  of  her  pallid  cheek,  defined  by  her 
flame-colored  hair,  something  utterly  fine,  something  he 
could  not  express. 

237 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

"Oh,"  he  groaned,  "she  is  like  that  poetry  stuff  in 
Shakespeare  that's  so  hard  to  get.  .  .  .  I'll  be  extra  nice  to 
Nelly  at  the  picnic  Sunday.  .  .  .  Her  trusting  me  so,  and 
then  me —  O  God,  keep  me  away  from  wickedness!" 

As  he  was  going  out  Saturday  morning  he  found  a  note 
from  Istra  waiting  in  the  hall  on  the  hat-rack: 

Do  you  want  to  play  with  poor  Istra  to-morrow  Sat.  after 
noon  and  perhaps  evening,  Mouse?  You  have  Saturday  after 
noon  off,  don't  you  ?  Leave  me  a  note  if  you  can  call  for  me 
at  1.30.  I.  N. 

He  didn't  have  Saturday  afternoon  off,  but  he  said  he 
did  in  his  note,  and  at  one-thirty  he  appeared  at  her  door 
in  a  new  spring  suit  (purchased  on  Tuesday),  a  new  spring 
hat,  very  fuzzy  and  gay  (purchased  Saturday  noon),  and 
the  walking-stick  he  had  bought  on  Tottenham  Court 
Road,  but  decently  concealed  from  the  boarding-house. 

Istra  took  him  to  what  she  called  a  "futurist  play." 
She  explained  it  all  to  him  several  times,  and  she  stood 
him  tea  and  muffins,  and  recalled  Mrs.  Cattermole's 
establishment  with  full  attention  to  Mrs.  Cattermole's 
bulbous  but  earnest  nose.  They  dined  at  the  Brevoort, 
and  were  back  at  nine-thirty;  for,  said  Istra,  she  was 
"just  a  bit  tired,  Mouse." 

They  stood  at  the  door  of  Istra's  room.  Istra  said, 
"You  may  come  in — just  for  a  minute." 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  even  peeped  into  her  room 
in  New  York.  The  old  shyness  was  on  him,  and  he  glanced 
back. 

Nelly  was  just  coming  up-stairs,  staring  at  him  where 
he  stood  inside  the  door,  her  lips  apart  with  amazement. 

Ladies  distinctly  did  not  entertain  in  their  rooms  at 
Mrs.  Arty's. 

He  wanted  to  rush  out,  to  explain,  to  invite  her  in,  to — 
to—  He  stuttered  in  his  thought,  and  by  now  Nelly 
had  hastened  past,  her  face  turned  from  them. 

238 


THE   WHIRLWIND 

Uneasily  he  tilted  on  the  front  of  a  cane-seated  rocking- 
chair,  glaring  at  a  pile  of  books  before  one  of  Istra's 
trunks.  Istra  sat  on  the  bedside  nursing  her  knee.  She 
burst  out: 

"O  Mouse  dear,  Fm  so  bored  by  everybody — every  sort 
of  everybody.  ...  Of  course  I  don't  mean  you;  you're  a 
good  pal.  .  .  .  Oh — Paris  is  too  complex — especially  when 
you  can't  quite  get  the  nasal  vowels — and  New  York  is  too 
youthful  and  earnest;  and  Dos  Puentes,  California,  will 
be  plain  hell.  .  .  .  And  all  my  little  parties — I  start  out  on 
them  happily,  always,  as  naive  as  a  kiddy  going  to  a 
birthday  party,  and  then  I  get  there  and  find  I  can't 
even  dance  square  dances,  as  the  kiddy  does,  and  go 
home —  Oh  damn  it,  damn  it,  damn  it!  Am  I  shock 
ing  you?  Well,  what  do  I  care  if  I  shock  everybody!" 

Her  slim  pliant  length  was  flung  out  along  the  bed,  and 
she  was  crying.  Her  beautiful  hands  clutched  the 
corners  of  a  pillow  bitterly. 

He  crept  over  to  the  bed,  patting  her  shoulder,  slowly 
and  regularly,  too  frightened  of  her  mood  even  to  want  to 
kiss  her. 

She  looked  up,  laughing  tearfully.  "Please  say,  'There, 
there,  there;  don't  cry.'  It  always  goes  with  pats  for 
weepy  girls,  you  know.  .  .  .  O  Mouse,  you  will  be  good  to 
some  woman  some  day." 

Her  long  strong  arms  reached  up  and  drew  him  down. 
It  was  his  head  that  rested  on  her  shoulder.  It  seemed  to 
both  of  them  that  it  was  he  who  was  to  be  petted,  not  she. 
He  pressed  his  cheek  against  the  comforting  hollow  of  her 
curving  shoulder  and  rested  there,  abandoned  to  a  for 
lorn  and  growing  happiness,  the  happiness  of  getting  so 
far  outside  of  his  tight  world  of  Wrennishness  that  he 
could  give  comfort  and  take  comfort  with  no  prim  worried 
thoughts  of  Wrenn. 

Istra  murmured:    "Perhaps  that's  what  I  need — some 

one    to    need    me.     Only "     She    stroked    his    hair. 

"Now  you  must  go,  dear." 

239 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

"You It's  better  now?  I'm  afraid  I  ain't  helped 

you  much.  It's  kinda  t'other  way  round." 

"Oh  yes,  indeed,  it's  all  right  now!  Just  nerves. 
Nothing  more.  Now,  good  night." 

" Please,  won't  you  come  to  the  picnic  to-morrow? 
It's " 

"No.     Sorry,  but  can't  possibly." 

"Please  think  it  over." 

"No,  no,  no,  no,  dear!  You  go  and  forget  me  and 
enjoy  yourself  and  be  good  to  your  pink-face — Nelly, 
isn't  it?  She  seems  to  be  terribly  nice,  and  I  know  you 
two  will  have  a  good  party.  You  must  forget  me.  I'm 
just  a  teacher  of  playing  games  who  hasn't  been  successful 
at  any  game  whatever.  Not  that  it  matters.  I  don't 
care.  I  don't,  really.  Now,  good  night." 


XVIII 

AND  FOLLOWS   A  WANDERING  FLAME   THROUGH   PERILOUS 

SEAS 

'""PHEY  had  picnic  dinner  early  up  there  on  the  Palisades: 
1  Nelly  and  Mr.  Wrenn,  Mrs.  Arty  and  Tom,  Miss 
Proudfoot  and  Mrs.  Samuel  Ebbitt,  the  last  of  whom  kept 
ejaculating:  "Well!  I  ain't  run  off  like  this  in  ten  years!" 
They  squatted  about  a  red-cotton  table-cloth  spread  on  a 
rock,  broadly  discussing  the  sandwiches  and  cold  chicken 
and  lemonade  and  stuffed  olives,  and  laughing  almost  to  a 
point  of  distress  over  Tom's  accusation  that  Miss  Proud- 
foot  had  secreted  about  her  person  a  bottle  of  rye  whisky. 

Nelly  was  very  pleasant  to  Mr.  Wrenn,  but  she  called 
him  neither  Billy  nor  anything  else,  and  mostly  she  talked 
to  Miss  Proudfoot,  smiling  at  him,  but  saying  nothing  when 
he  managed  to  get  out  a  jest  about  Mrs.  Arty's  chewing- 
gum.  When  he  moved  to  her  side  with  a  wooden  plate  of 
cream-cheese  sandwiches  (which  Tom  humorously  termed 
"cold-cream  wafers")  Mr.  Wrenn  started  to  explain  how 
he  had  come  to  enter  Istra's  room. 

"Why  shouldn't  you?"  Nelly  asked,  curtly,  and  turned 
to  Miss  Proudfoot. 

"She  doesn't  seem  to  care  much,"  he  reflected,  relieved 
and  stabbed  in  his  humble  vanity  and  reattracted  to 
Nelly,  all  at  once.  He  was  anxious  about  her  opinion  of 
Istra  and  her  opinion  of  himself,  and  slightly  defiant,  as 
she  continued  to  regard  him  as  a  respectable  person  whose 
name  she  couldn't  exactly  remember. 

Hadn't  he  the  right  to  love  Istra  if  he  wanted  to? 
241 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

he  desired  to  know  of  himself.  Besides,  what  had  he 
done?  Just  gone  out  walking  with  his  English  hotel 
acquaintance  Istra!  He  hadn't  been  in  her  room  but  just 
a  few  minutes.  Fine  reason  that  was  for  Nelly  to  act  like 
a  blooming  iceberg!  Besides,  it  wasn't  as  if  he  were 
engaged  to  Nelly,  or  anything  like  that.  Besides,  of 
course  Istra  would  never  care  for  him.  There  were 
several  other  besideses  with  which  he  harrowed  himself 
while  trying  to  appear  picnically  agreeable.  He  was 
getting  very  much  confused,  and  was  slightly  abrupt  as 
he  said  to  Nelly,  "Let's  walk  over  to  that  high  rock  on 
the  edge." 

A  dusky  afterglow  filled  the  sky  before  them  as  they 
silently  trudged  to  the  rock  and  from  the  top  of  the  sheer 
cliff  contemplated  the  smooth  and  steely-gray  Hudson 
below.  Nelly  squeaked  her  fear  at  the  drop  and  clutched 
his  arm,  but  suddenly  let  go  and  drew  back  without  his 
aid. 

He  groaned  within,  "I  haven't  the  right  to  help  her." 
He  took  her  arm  as  she  hesitatingly  climbed  from  the 
rock  down  to  the  ground. 

She  jerked  it  free,  curtly  saying,  "No,  thank  you." 

She  was  repentant  in  a  moment,  and,  cheerfully: 

"Miss  Nash  took  me  in  her  room  yesterday  and  showed 
me  her  things.  My,  she's  got  such  be-yoo-ti-ful  jewels! 
La  V'lieres  and  pearls  and  a  swell  amethyst  brooch.  My! 
She  told  me  all  about  how  the  girls  used  to  study  in 
Paris,  and  how  sorry  she  would  be  to  go  back  to  California 
and  keep  house." 

"Keep  house?" 

Nelly  let  him  suffer  for  a  moment  before  she  relieved 
him  with,  "For  her  father." 

"Oh.  .  .  .  Did  she  say  she  was  going  back  to  California 
soon?" 

"Not  till  the  end  of  the  summer,  maybe." 

"Oh Oh,  Nelly- 

For  the  first  time  that  day  he  was  perfectly  sincere. 

242 


A   WANDERING    FLAME 

He  was  trying  to  confide  in  her.     But  the  shame  of  having 

emotions  was  on  him.     He  got  no  farther. 

To  his  amazement,  Nelly  mused,  "She  is  very  nice." 
He  tried  hard  to  be  gallant.     "Yes,  she  is  interesting, 

but  of  course  she  ain't  anywheres  near  as  nice  as  you  are, 

Nelly,  be- 
"Oh,  don't,  Billy!" 

The  quick  agony  in  her  voice  almost  set  them  both 
weeping.  The  shared  sorrow  of  separation  drew  them 
together  for  a  moment.  Then  she  started  off,  with  short 
swift  steps,  and  he  tagged  after.  He  found  little  to  say. 
He  tried  to  comment  on  the  river.  He  remarked  that  the 
apartment-houses  across  in  New  York  were  bright  in  the 
sunset;  that,  in  fact,  the  upper  windows  looked  "like 
there  was  a  fire  in  there."  Her  sole  comment  was  "Yes." 

When  they  rejoined  the  crowd  he  was  surprised  to  hear 
her  talking  volubly  to  Miss  Proudfoot.  He  rejoiced  that 
she  was  "game,"  but  he  did  not  rejoice  long.  For  a 
frightened  feeling  that  he  had  to  hurry  home  and  see 
Istra  at  once  was  turning  him  weak  and  cold.  He  didn't 
want  to  see  her;  she  was  intruding;  but  he  had  to  go — go 
at  once;  and  the  agony  held  him  all  the  way  home,  while 
he  was  mechanically  playing  the  part  of  stern  reformer 
and  agreeing  with  Tom  Poppins  that  the  horrors  of  the 
recent  Triangle  shirt-waist-factory  fire  showed  that 
"something  oughta  be  done — something  sure  oughta  be." 

He  trembled  on  the  ferry  till  Nelly,  with  a  burst  of 
motherly  tenderness  in  her  young  voice,  suddenly  asked: 
"Why,  you're  shivering  dreadfully!  Did  you  get  a  chill?" 

Naturally,  he  wanted  the  credit  of  being  known  as  an 
invalid,  and  pitied  and  nursed,  but  he  reluctantly  smiled 
and  said,  "Oh  no,  it  ain't  anything  at  all." 

Then  Istra  called  him  again,  and  he  fumed  over  the 
slowness  of  their  landing. 

And,  at  home,  Istra  was  out. 

He  went  resolutely  down  and  found  Nelly  alone,  sitting 
on  a  round  pale-yellow  straw  mat  on  the  steps. 

243 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

He  sat  by  her.  He  was  very  quiet;  not  at  all  the 
jovial  young  man  of  the  picnic  properly  following  the 
boarding-house-district  rule  that  males  should  be  jocular 
and  show  their  appreciation  of  the  ladies  by  "kidding 
them."  And  he  spoke  with  a  quiet  graciousness  that  was 
almost  courtly,  with  a  note  of  weariness  and  spiritual 
experience  such  as  seldom  comes  into  the  boarding-houses, 
to  slay  joy  and  bring  wisdom  and  give  words  shyness. 

He  had,  as  he  sat  down,  intended  to  ask  her  to  go  with 
him  to  a  moving-picture  show.  But  inspiration  was  on 
him.  He  merely  sat  and  talked. 

When  Mr.  Wrenn  returned  from  the  office,  two  evenings 
later,  he  found  this  note  awaiting  him: 

DEAR  MOUSE, — Friend  has  asked  me  to  join  her  in  studio 
&  have  beat  it.  Sorry  not  see  you  &  say  good-by.  Come  see 
me  sometime — phone  before  and  see  if  I'm  in — Spring  xxx — ad 
dress  xx  South  Washington  Sq.  In  haste,  ISTRA. 

He  spent  the  evening  in  not  going  to  the  studio.  Several 
times  he  broke  away  from  a  pinochle  game  to  rush  up 
stairs  and  see  if  the  note  was  as  chilly  as  he  remembered. 
It  always  was. 

Then  for  a  week  he  awaited  a  more  definite  invitation 
from  her,  which  did  not  come.  He  was  uneasily  polite 
to  Nelly  these  days,  and  tremulously  appreciative  of  her 
gentleness.  He  wanted  to  brood,  but  he  did  not  take  to 
his  old  habit  of  long  solitary  walks.  Every  afternoon  he 
planned  one  for  the  evening;  every  evening  found  that 
he  "wanted  to  be  around  with  folks." 

He  had  a  sort  of  youthful  defiant  despair,  so  he  jested 
much  at  the  card-table,  by  way  of  practising  his  new  game 
of  keeping  people  from  knowing  what  he  was  thinking. 
He  took  sophisticated  pleasure  in  noting  that  Mrs.  Arty 
no  longer  condescended  to  him.  He  managed  to  imitate 
Tom's  writing  on  a  card  which  he  left  with  a  bunch  of 
jonquils  in  Nelly's  room,  and  nearly  persuaded  even 
Tom  himself  that  Tom  was  the  donor.  Probably  because 

244 


A   WANDERING   FLAME 

he  didn't  much  care  what  happened  he  was  able  to  force 
Mr.  Mortimer  R.  Guilfogle  to  raise  his  salary  to  twenty- 
three  dollars  a  week.  Mr.  Guilfogle  went  out  of  his  way  to 
admit  that  the  letters  to  the  Southern  trade  had  been 
"a  first-rate  stunt,  son/' 

John  Henson,  the  head  of  the  Souvenir  Company's 
manufacturing  department,  invited  Mr.  Wrenn  home  to 
dinner,  and  the  account  of  the  cattle-boat  was  much 
admired  by  Mrs.  Henson  and  the  three  young  Hensons. 

A  few  days  later,  in  mid-June,  there  was  an  unusually 
cheerful  dinner  at  the  boarding-house.  Nelly  turned  to 
Mr.  Wrenn — yes,  he  was  quite  sure  about  it;  she  was 
speaking  exclusively  to  him,  with  a  lengthy  and  most 
merry  account  of  the  manner  in  which  the  floor  superin 
tendent  had  "called  down"  the  unkindest  of  the  aislesmen. 

He  longed  to  give  his  whole  self  in  his  answer,  to  be 
in  the  absolute  community  of  thought  that  lovers  know. 
But  the  image  of  Istra  was  behind  his  chair.  Istra — he 
had  to  see  her — now,  this  evening.  He  rushed  out  to  the 
corner  drug-store  and  reached  her  by  telephone. 

Yes-s,  admitted  Istra,  a  little  grudgingly,  she  was  going 
to  be  at  the  studio  that  evening,  though  she — well,  there 
was  going  to  be  a  little  party — some  friends — but — yes, 
she'd  be  glad  to  have  him  come. 

Grimly,  Mr.  Wrenn  set  out  for  Washington  Square. 

Since  this  scientific  treatise  has  so  exhaustively  examined 
Mr.  Wrenn's  reactions  toward  the  esthetic,  one  need  give 
but  three  of  his  impressions  of  the  studio  and  people  he 
found  on  Washington  Square — namely: 

(a)  That  the  big  room  was  bare,  ill  kept,  and  not  com 
parable  to  the  red-plush  splendor  of  Mrs.  Arty's,  for  all 
its  pretension  to  superiority.     Why,  a  lot  of  the  pictures 
weren't  framed!     And  you  should  have  seen  the  giltness 
and  fruit-borderness  of  the  frames  at  Mrs.  Arty's! 

(b)  That  the  people  were  brothers-in-talk  to  the  inmates 
of  the  flat  on  Great  James  Street,  London,  only  far  less 
friendly;  and 

17 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

(c)  That  Mr.  Wrenn  was  now  a  man  of  friends,  and  if 
the  "blooming  Bohemians,"  as  he  called  them,  didn't  like 
him  they  were  permitted  to  go  to  the  dickens. 

Istra  was  always  across  the  room  from  him  somehow. 
He  found  himself  glad.  It  made  their  parting  definite. 

He  was  going  back  to  his  own  people,  he  was  deciding. 

As  he  rose  with  elaborate  boarding-house  apologies 
to  the  room  at  large  for  going,  and  a  cheerful  but  not 
intimate  "Good  night"  to  Istra,  she  followed  him  to  the 
door  and  into  the  dark  long  hallway  without. 

"Good  night,  Mouse  dear.  I'm  glad  you  got  a  chance 
to  talk  to  the  Silver  Girl.  But  was  Mr.  Hargis  rude  to 
you  ?  I  heard  him  talking  Single  Tax — or  was  it  Matisse  ? 
— and  he's  usually  rude  when  he  talks  about  them." 

"No.     He  was  all  right." 

"Then  what  is  worrying  you?" 

"Oh— nothing.     Good  ni " 

"You  are  going  off  angry.     Aren't  you?" 

"No,  but — oh,  there  ain't  any  use  of  our — of  me  be 
ing Is  there?" 

« "\T  " 

JN-no 

"Matisse — the  guy  you  just  spoke  about — and  these 
artists  here  to-night  in  bobtail  dress-suits — I  wouldn't 
know  when  to  wear  one  of  them  things,  and  when  a 
swallow-tail — if  I  had  one,  even — or  when  a  Prince 
Albert  or " 

"Oh,  not  a  Prince  Albert,  Mouse  dear.  Say,  a  frock- 
coat." 

"Sure.  That's  what  I  mean.  It's  like  that  Matisse 
guy.  I  don't  know  about  none  of  the  things  you're  in 
terested  in.  While  you've  been  away  from  Mrs.  Arty's — 
Lord,  I've  missed  you  so!  But  when  I  try  to  train  with 
your  bunch,  or  when  you  spring  Matisse"  (he  seemed 
peculiarly  to  resent  the  unfortunate  French  artist)  "on 
me  I  sort  of  get  onto  myself — and  now  it  ain't  like  it  was 
in  England;  I've  got  a  bunch  of  my  own  I  can  chase 
around  with.  Anyway,  I  got  onto  myself  to-night.  I 

246 


A   WANDERING    FLAME 

s'pose  it's  partly  because  I  been  thinking  you  didn't  care 
much  for  my  friends." 

"But,  Mouse  dear,  all  this  isn't  news  to  me.  Surely 
you,  who've  gipsied  with  me,  aren't  going  to  be  so  obvious, 
so  banal,  as  to  blame  me  because  you've  cared  for  me,  are 
you,  child?" 

"Oh  no,  no,  no!  I  didn't  mean  to  do  that.  I  just 
wanted — oh,  gee!  I  dunno — well,  I  wanted  to  have  things 
between  us  definite." 

"I  do  understand.  You're  quite  right.  And  now  we're 
just  friends,  aren't  we?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  good-by.  And  sometime  when  I'm  back  in 
New  York — I'm  going  to  California  in  a  few  days — 
I  think  I'll  be  able  to  get  back  here — I  certainly  hope  so — 
though  of  course  I'll  have  to  keep  house  for  friend  father 
for  a  while,  and  maybe  I'll  marry  myself  wTith  a  local 
magnate  in  desperation — but,  as  I  was  saying,  dear,  when 
I  get  back  here  we'll  have  a  good  dinner,  nicht  wahr?" 

"Yes,  and— good-by." 

She  stood  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  looking  down.  He 
slowly  clumped  down  the  wooden  treads,  boiling  with  the 
amazing  discoveries  that  he  had  said  good-by  to  Istra, 
that  he  was  not  sorry,  and  that  now  he  could  offer  to 
Nelly  Croubel  everything. 

Istra  suddenly  called,  "O  Mouse,  wait  just  a  moment." 

She  darted  like  a  swallow.  She  threw  her  arm  about 
his  shoulder  and  kissed  his  cheek.  Instantly  she  was 
running  up-stairs  again,  and  had  disappeared  into  the 
studio. 

Mr.  William  Wrenn  was  walking  rapidly  up  Riverside 
Drive,  thinking  about  his  letters  to  the  Southern  mer 
chants. 

While  he  w^as  leaving  the  studio  building  he  had  per 
fectly  seen  himself  as  one  who  was  about  to  go  through  a 
tumultuous  agony,  after  which  he  would  be  free  of  all  the 

247 


OUR    MR.    WRENN 

desire  for  Istra  and  ready  to  serve  Nelly  sincerely  and 
humbly. 

But  he  found  that  the  agony  was  all  over.  Even  to 
save  his  dignity  as  one  who  was  being  dramatic,  he  couldn't 
keep  his  thoughts  on  Istra. 

Every  time  he  thought  of  Nelly  his  heart  was  warm  and 
he  chuckled  softly.  Several  times  out  of  nothing  came 
pictures  of  the  supercilious  persons  whom  he  had  heard 
solving  the  problems  of  the  world  at  the  studio  on  Wash 
ington  Square,  and  he  muttered:  "Oh,  hope  they  choke. 
Istra's  all  right,  though;  she  learnt  me  an  awful  lot. 
But — gee!  I'm  glad  she  ain't  in  the  same  house;  I  sup 
pose  I'd  ag'nize  round  if  she  was." 

Suddenly,  at  no  particular  street  corner  on  Riverside 
Drive,  just  a  street,  he  fled  over  to  Broadway  and  the 
Subway.  He  had  to  be  under  the  same  roof  with  Nelly. 
If  it  were  only  possible  to  see  her  that  night!  But  it  was 
midnight.  However,  he  formulated  a  plan.  The  next 
morning  he  would  leave  the  office,  find  her  at  her  de 
partment  store,  and  make  her  go  out  to  Manhattan 
Beach  with  him  for  dinner  that  night. 

He  was  home.  He  went  happily  up  the  stairs.  He 
would  dream  of  Nelly,  and 

Nelly's  door  opened,  and  she  peered  out,  drawing  her 
peignoir  about  her. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  softly,  "is  it  you?" 

"Yes.     My,  you're  up  late." 

"  Do  you—         Are  you  all  right  ?" 

He  dashed  down  the  hall  and  stood  shyly  scratching  at 
the  straw  of  his  newest  hat. 

"Why  yes,  Nelly,  course.     Poor Oh,  don't  tell 

me  you  have  a  headache  again?" 

"No I  was  awful  foolish,  of  course,  but  I  saw  you 

when  you  went  out  this  evening,  and  you  looked  so  savage, 
and  you  didn't  look  very  well." 

"But  now  it's  all  right." 

"Then  good  night." 

248 


A   WANDERING   FLAME 

"Oh  no — listen — please  do!  I  went  over  to  the  place 
Miss  Nash  is  living  at,  because  I  was  pretty  sure  that  I 
ain't  hipped  on  her — sort  of  hypnotized  by  her — any  more. 
And  I  found  I  ain't!  /  ain't!  I  don't  know  what  to  say, 
but  somehow  I  want  to — I  want  you  to  know  that  from 
now  on  I'm  going  to  try  and  see  if  I  can't  get  you  to  care 
for  me."  He  was  dreadfully  earnest,  and  rather  quiet, 
with  the  dignity  of  the  man  who  has  found  himself. 
"I'm  scared/'  he  went  on,  "about  saying  this,  because 
maybe  you'll  think  I've  got  an  idea  I'm  kind  of  a  little  tin 
god,  and  all  I've  got  to  do  is  to  say  which  girl  I'll  want 
and  she'll  come  a-running,  but  it  isn't  that;  it  isnt.  It's 
just  that  I  want  you  to  know  I'm  going  to  give  all  of  me 
to  you  now  if  I  can  get  you  to  want  me.  And  I  am  glad 
I  knew  Istra — she  learnt  me  a  lot  about  books  and  all,  so 
I  have  more  to  me,  or  maybe  will  have,  for  you.  It's 

— Nelly — promise  you'll  be — my  friend — promise If 

you  knew  how  I  rushed  back  here  to-night  to  see  you!" 

"Billy " 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  he  grasped  it  as  though  it 
were  the  sacred  symbol  of  his  dreams. 

"To-morrow,"  she  smiled,  with  a  hint  of  tears,  "I'll  be  a 
reg'lar  lady,  I  guess,  and  make  you  explain  and  explain 
like  everything,  but  now  I'm  just  glad.  Yes,"  defiantly, 
"  I  will  admit  it  if  I  want  to !  I  am  glad !" 

Her  door  closed. 


XIX 

TO  A   HAPPY   SHORE 

UPON  an  evening  of  November,  1911,  it  chanced  that 
of  Mrs.  Arty's  flock  only  Nelly  and  Mr.  Wrenn  were 
at  home.  They  had  finished  two  hot  games  of  pinochle, 
and  sat  with  their  feet  on  a  small  amiable  oil-stove. 
Mr.  Wrenn  laid  her  hand  against  his  cheek  with  in 
finite  content.  He  was  outlining  the  situation  at  the 
office. 

The  business  had  so  increased  that  Mr.  Mortimer  R. 
Guilfogle,  the  manager,  had  told  Rabin,  the  head  travel 
ing-salesman,  that  he  was  going  to  appoint  an  assistant 
manager.  Should  he,  Mr.  Wrenn  queried,  try  to  get  the 
position?  The  other  candidates,  Rabin  and  Henson  and 
Glover,  were  all  good  friends  of  his,  and,  furthermore, 
could  he  "run  a  bunch  of  guys  if  he  was  over  them?" 

"Why,  of  course  you  can,  Billy.  I  remember  when  you 
came  here  you  were  sort  of  shy.  But  now  you're  'most  the 
star  boarder!  And  won't  those  others  be  trying  to  get  the 
job  away  from  you?  Of  course  I" 

"Yes,  that's  so." 

"Why,  Billy,  some  day  you  might  be  manager!" 

"Say,  that  would  be  great,  wouldn't  it!  But  hones', 
Nell,  do  you  think  I  might  have  a  chance  to  land  the 
assistant's  job?" 

"I  certainly  do." 

"Oh,  Nelly — gee!  you  make  me — oh,  learn  to  bank  on 
myself " 

He  kissed  her  for  the  second  time  in  his  life. 

250 


TO   A   HAPPY    SHORE 

"Mr.  Guilfogle,"  stated  Mr.  Wrenn,  next  day,  "I  want 
to  talk  to  you  about  that  assistant  managership." 

The  manager,  in  his  new  office  and  his  new  flowered 
waistcoat,  had  acted  interested  when  Our  steady  and 
reliable  Mr.  Wrenn  came  in.  But  now  he  tried  to  appear 
dignified  and  impatient. 

"That "  he  began. 

"I've  been  here  longer  than  any  of  the  other  men,  and  I 
know  every  line  of  the  business  now,  even  the  manufac 
turing.  You  remember  I  held  down  Henson's  job  when 
his  wife  was  sick." 

"Yes,  but " 

"And  I  guess  Jake  thinks  I  can  boss  all  right,  and  Miss 
Leavenbetz,  too." 

"Now  will  you  kindly  'low  me  to  talk  a  little,  Wrenn? 
I  know  a  little  something  about  how  things  go  in  the 
office  myself!  I  don't  deny  you're  a  good  man.  Maybe 
some  day  you  may  get  to  be  assistant  manager.  But  I'm 
going  to  give  the  first  try  at  it  to  Glover.  He's  had  so 
much  more  experience  with  meeting  people  directly — 
personally.  But  you're  a  good  man " 

"Yes,  I've  heard  that  before,  but  I'll  be  gol-darned  if 
I'll  stick  at  one  desk  all  my  life  just  because  I  save  you  all 
the  trouble  in  that  department,  Guilfogle,  and  now " 

"Now,  now,  now,  now!  Calm  down;  hold  your  horses, 
my  boy.  This  ain't  a  melodrama,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know;  I  didn't  mean  to  get  sore,  but  you 
know " 

"Well,  now  I'll  tell  you  what  I'm  going  to  do.  I'm 
going  to  make  you  head  of  the  manufacturing  department 
instead  of  getting  in  a  new  man,  and  shift  Henson  to 
purchasing.  I'll  put  Jake  on  your  old  job,  and  expect 
you  to  give  him  a  lift  when  he  needs  it.  And  you'd 
better  keep  up  the  most  important  of  the  jollying-letters, 
I  guess." 

"Well,  I  like  that  all  right.     I  appreciate  it.     But  of 

course  I  expect  more  pay — two  men's  work " 

251 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

"Let's  see;   what  you  getting  now?" 

"  Twenty-  three." 

"Well,  that's  a  good  deal,  you  know.  The  overhead 
expenses  have  been  increasing  a  lot  faster  than  our 
profits,  and  we've " 

"Huh!" 

" got  to  see  where  new  business  is  coming  in  to 

justify  the  liberal  way  we've  treated  you  men  before  we 
can  afford  to  do  much  salary-raising — though  we're  just 
as  glad  to  do  it  as  you  men  to  get  it;  but " 

"Huh!" 

" if  we  go  to  getting  extravagant  we'll  go  bankrupt, 

and  then  we  won't  any  of  us  have  jobs.  .  .  .  Still,  I  am 
willing  to  raise  you  to  twenty-five,  though " 

"Thirty-five!" 

Mr.  Wrenn  stood  straight.  The  manager  tried  to  stare 
him  down.  Panic  was  attacking  Mr.  Wrenn,  and  he  had 
to  think  of  Nelly  to  keep  up  his  defiance.  At  last  Mr. 
Guilfogle  glared,  then  roared: 

"Well,  confound  it,  Wrenn,  I'll  give  you  twenty-nine- 
fifty,  and  not  a  cent  more  for  at  least  a  year.  That's 
final.  Understand?" 

"All  right,"  chirped  Mr.  Wrenn. 

"Gee!"  he  was  exulting  to  himself,  "never  thought  I'd 
get  anything  like  that.  Twenty-nine-fifty !  More  'n  enough 
to  marry  on  now!  I'm  going  to  get  twenty-nine- fifty!" 

"Married  five  months  ago  to-night,  honey,"  said  Mr. 
Wrenn  to  Nelly,  his  wife,  in  their  Bronx  flat,  and  thus  set 
down  October  17,  1913,  as  a  great  date  in  history. 

"Oh,  I  know  it,  Billy.  I  wondered  if  you'd  remember. 
You  just  ought  to  see  the  dessert  I'm  making — but  that's 
a  s'prise." 

"Remember!  Should  say  I  did!  See  what  I've  got 
for  somebody!" 

He  opened  a  parcel  and  displayed  a  pair  of  red-worsted 
bed-slippers,  a  creation  of  one  of  the  greatest  red-worsted 

252 


TO   A   HAPPY    SHORE 

artists  in  the  whole  land.  Yes,  and  he  could  afford  them, 
too.  Was  he  not  making  thirty-two  dollars  a  week — 
he  who  had  been  poor!  And  his  chances  for  the  assistant 
managership  "looked  good." 

"Oh,  they'll  be  so  comfy  when  it  gets  cold.  You're  a 
dear!  Oh,  Billy,  the  janitress  says  the  Jewish  lady  across 
the  court  in  number  seventy  is  so  lazy  she  wears  her 
corsets  to  bed!" 

"Did  the  janitress  get  the  coal  put  in,  Nell?" 

"Yes,  but  her  husband  is  laid  off  again.  I  was  talking 
to  her  quite  a  while  this  afternoon.  .  .  .  Oh,  dear,  I  do  get 
so  lonely  for  you,  sweetheart,  with  nothing  to  do.  But 
I  did  read  some  Kim  this  afternoon.  I  liked  it." 

"That's  fine!" 

"But  it's  kind  of  hard.  Maybe  I'll Oh,  I  don't 

know.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  read  a  lot." 

He  patted  her  back  softly,  and  hoped:  "Maybe  some 
day  we  can  get  a  little  house  out  of  town,  and  then  you 
can  garden.  .  .  .  Sorry  old  Siddons  is  laid  off  again.  .  .  . 
Is  the  gas-stove  working  all  right  now?" 

"Um-huh,  honey.     I  fixed  it." 

"Say,  let  me  make  the  coffee,  Nell.  You'll  have  enough 
to  do  with  setting  the  table  and  watching  the  sausages." 

"All  rightee,  hun.  But,  oh,  Billy,  I'm  so  'shamed.  I 
was  going  to  get  some  potato  salad,  and  I've  just  re 
membered  I  forgot."  She  hung  her  head,  with  a  finger 
tip  to  her  pretty  lips,  and  pretended  to  look  dreadfully 
ashamed.  "Would  you  mind  so  ver-ee  much  skipping 
down  to  Bachmeyer's  for  some?  Ah-h,  is  it  just  fearful 
neglected  when  it  comes  home  all  tired  out?" 

"No,  indeedy.  But  you  got  to  kiss  me  first,  else  I 
won't  go  at  all." 

Nelly  turned  to  him  and,  as  he  held  her,  her  head  bent 
far  back.  She  lay  tremblingly  inert  against  his  arms, 
staring  up  at  him,  panting.  With  her  head  on  his  shoul 
der — a  soft  burden  of  love  that  his  shoulder  rejoiced  to 
bear — they  stood  gazing  out  of  the  narrow  kitchen  window 

253 


OUR   MR.    WRENN 

of  their  sixth-story  flat  and  noticed  for  the  hundredth  time 
that  the  trees  in  a  vacant  lot  across  were  quite  as  red 
and  yellow  as  the  millionaire  trees  in  Central  Park  along 
Fifth  Avenue. 

"Sometime/*  mused  Mr.  Wrenn,  "we'll  live  in  Jersey, 
where  there's  trees  and  trees  and  trees — and  maybe 
there'll  be  kiddies  to  play  under  them,  and  then  you 
won't  be  lonely,  honey;  they'll  keep  you  some  busy!" 

"You  skip  along  now,  and  don't  be  talking  nonsense,  or 
I'll  not  give  you  one  single  wee  bit  of  dinner  I"  Then  she 
blushed  adorably,  with  infinite  hope. 

He  hastened  out  of  the  kitchen,  with  the  happy  glance 
he  never  failed  to  give  the  living-room — its  red-papered 
walls  with  shiny  imitation-oak  woodwork;  the  rows  of 
steins  on  the  plate-rack;  the  imitation-oak  dining-table, 
with  a  vase  of  newly  dusted  paper  roses;  the  Morris  chair, 
with  Nelly's  sewing  on  a  tiny  wicker  table  beside  it;  the 
large  gilt-framed  oleograph  of"  Pike's  Peak  by  Moonlight." 

He  clattered  down  the  slate  treads  of  the  stairs.  He 
fairly  vaulted  out  of  doors.  He  stopped,  startled. 

Across  the  ragged  vacant  lots  to  the  west  a  vast  sunset 
processional  marched  down  the  sky.  It  had  not  been 
visible  from  their  flat,  which  looked  across  East  River 
to  the  tame  grassy  shore  of  a  real-estate  boomer's  suburb. 
"Gee!"  he  mourned,  "it's  the  first  time  I've  noticed 
a  sunset  for  a  month!  I  used  to  see  knights'  flags  and 
Mandalay  and  all  sorts  of  stuff  in  sunsets!" 

Wistfully  the  exile  gazed  at  his  lost  kingdom,  till  the 
October  chill  aroused  him. 

But  he  learned  a  new  way  to  cook  eggs  from  the  pro 
prietor  of  the  delicatessen  store;  and  his  plans  for  spend 
ing  the  evening  playing  pinochle  with  Nelly,  and  reading 
the  evening  paper  aloud,  set  him  chuckling  softly  to  him 
self  as  he  hurried  home  through  the  brisk  autumn  breeze 
with  seven  cents'  worth  of  potato  salad. 

THE    END 


"The  Books  You  Like  to  Read 
at  the  Price  You  Like  to  Pay" 


There  Are  Two  Sides 
to  Everything — 

— including  the  wrapper  which  covers 
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mance,  refer  to  the  carefully  selected  list 
of  modern  fiction  comprising  most  of 
the  successes  by  prominent  writers  of 
the  day  which  is  printed  on  the  back  of 
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titles  to  choose  from — books  for  every 
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There  is  a  Grosset  &  Dunlap  Book 
for  every  mood  and  for  every  taste 


RUBY  M.   AYRE'S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

RICHARD  CHATTERTON 

A  fascinating  story  in  which  love  and  jealousy  play 
strange  tricks  with  women's  souls. 

A  BACHELOR  HUSBAND 

Can  a  woman  love  two  men  at  the  same  time  ? 

In  its  solving  of  this  particular  variety  of  triangle  "  A 
Bachelor  Husband  "  will  particularly  interest,  and  strangely 
enough,  without  one  shock  to  the  most  conventional  minded. 

THE  SCAR 

With  fine  comprehension  and  insight  the  author  shows  a 
terrific  contrast  between  the  womam  whose  love  was  of  the 
flesh  and  one  whose  love  was  of  the  spirit. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  BARRY  WICKLOW 

Here  is  a  man  and  woman  who,  marrying  for  love,  yet  try 
to  build  their  wedded  life  upon  a  gospel  of  hate  for  each 
other  and  yet  win  back  to  a  greater  love  for  each  other  in 
the  end. 

THE  UPHILL  ROAD 

The  heroine  of  this  story  was  a  consort  of  thieves.  The 
man  was  fine,  clean,  fresh  from  the  West.  It  is  a  story  of 
strength  and  passion. 

WINDS  OF  THE  WORLD 

Jill,  a  poor  little  typist,  marries  the  great  Henry  Sturgess 
and  inherits  millions,  but  not  happiness.  Then  at  last — but 
we  must  leave  that  to  Ruby  M.  Ayres  to  tell  you  as  only 
she  can. 

THE  SECOND  HONEYMOON 

In  this  story  the  author  has  produced  a  book  which  no 
one  who  has  loved  or  hopes  to  love  can  afford  to  miss. 
The  story  fairly  leaps  from  climax  to  climax. 

THE  PHANTOM  LOVER 

Have  you  not  often  heard  of  someone  being  in  love  with 
love  rather  than  the  person  they  believed  the  object  of  their 
affections  ?  That  was  Esther !  But  she  passes  through  the 
crisis  into  a  deep  and  profound  love. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,         PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


PETER  B.  KYNE'S  NOVELS 

May  be  hat!  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  PRIDE  OF  PALOMAR 

When  two  strong  men  clash  and  the  under-dog  has  Irish 
blood  in  his  veins — there's  a  tale  that  Kyne  can  tell  1  And 
"  the  girl "  is  also  very  much  in  evidence. 

KINDRED  OF  THE  DUST 

Donald  McKay,  son  of  Hector  McKay,  millionaire  lum 
ber  king,  falls  in  love  with  "  Nan  of  the  Sawdust  Pile,"  a 
charming  girl  who  has  been  ostracized  by  her  townsfolk. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GIANTS 

The  right  of  the  Cardigans,  father  and  son,  to  hold  the 
Valley  of  the  Giants  against  treachery.  The  reader  finishes 
with  a  sense  of  having  lived  with  big  men  and  women  in  a 
big  country. 

GAPPY  RICKS 

The  story  of  old  Cappy  Ricks  and  of  Matt  Peasley,  the 
boy  he  tried  to  break  because  he  knew  the  acid  test  was 
good  for  his  soul. 

WEBSTER:  MAN'S  MAN 

In  a  little  Jim  Crow  Republic  in  Central  America,  a  man 
and  a  woman,  hailing  from  the  "  States,"  met  up  with  a 
revolution  and  for  a  while  adventures  and  excitement  came 
so  thick  and  fast  that  their  love  affair  had  to  wait  for  a  lull 
in  the  game. 

CAPTAIN  SCRAGGS 

This  sea  yarn  recounts  the  adventures  of  three  rapscal 
lion  sea-faring  men — a  Captain  Scraggs,  owner  of  the  green 
vegetable  freighter  Maggie,  Gibney  the  mate  and  McGuff- 
ney  the  engineer. 

THE  LONG  CHANCE 

A  story  fresh  from  the  heart  of  the  West,  of  San  Pasquar, 
a  sun-baked  desert  town,  of  Harley  P.  Hennage,  the  best 
gambler,  the  best  and  worst  man  of  San  Pasqual  and  of 
lovely  Donna. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,        NEW  YORK 


Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  with  the  sheriff  on  a  night  journey 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band.  Thrills  and  excitement  sweep  the 
reader  along  to  the  end. 


JACKSON  GREGORY'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

THE  EVERLASTING  WHISPER 

The  story  of  a  strong  man's  struggle  against  savage  nature  and  human- 
$ty,  and  of  a  beautiful  girl's  regeneration  from  a  spoiled  child  of  wealth  into 
a  courageous  strong-willed  woman* 

DESERT  VALLEY 

A  college  professor  sets  out  with  his  daughter  to  find  gold.  They  meet 
a  rancher  who  loses  his  heart,  and  become  involved  in  a  feud.  An  intensely 
exciting  story. 

MAN  TO  MAN 

Encircled  with  enemies,  distrusted,  Steve  defends  his  right*.  How  he 
won  his  game  and  the  girl  he  loved  it  the  story  filled  with  breathless 
•ituationt. 

THE  BELLS  OF  SAN  JUAN 

Dr.  Virginia  Page  is  forced  to  go  \> 
into  the  strongholds  of  a  lawless  band.  1 
reader  along  to  the  end. 

JUDITH  OF  BLUE  LAKE  RANCH 

Judith  Sanford  part  owner  of  a  cattle  ranch  realizes  she  is  being  robbed 
by  her  foreman.  How,  with  the  help  of  Bud  Lee.  she  checkmates  Trevor's 
scheme  makes  fascinating  reading. 

THE  SHORT  CUT 

Wayne  is  suspected  of  killing  his  brother  after  a  violent  quarrel.  Finan 
cial  complications,  villains,  a  horse-race  and  beautiful  Wanda,  all  go  to  make 
up  a  thrilling  romance. 

THE  JOYOUS  TROUBLE  MAKER 

A  reporter  sets  up  housekeeping  close  to  Beatrice's  Ranoh  much  to  her 
chagrin.  There  is  "  another  man  "  who  complicates  matters,  but  all  turn? 
out  as  it  should  in  this  tale  of  romance  and  adventure. 

SIX  FEET  FOUR 

Beatrice  Waverly  is  robbed  of  $5,000  and  suspicion  fastens  upon  Buck 
Thornton,  but  she  soon  realizes  he  it  not  guilty.  Intensely  exciting,  here  is  a 
seal  story  of  the  Great  Far  West. 

WOLF  BREED 

No  Luck  Drennan  had  grown  hard  through  loss  of  faith  in  men  he  had 
trusted.  A  woman  hater  and  sharp  of  tongue,  he  finds  a  match  in  Ygerne 
whose  clever  fencing  wins  the  admiration  and  love  of  the  "  Lone  Wolf." 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


Records  the  many  wonderful  exploits  by  which  Tarzan  proves 
his  right  to  ape  kingship. 


EDGAR    RICE    BURROUGH'S 
NOVELS 

May  bi  tod  »inr>ver  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 

TARZAN  AND  THE  GOLDEN  LION~ 

A  tale  of  the  African  wilderness  which  appeals  to  all  readers 
of  fiction. .  . 

TARZAN  THE  TERRIBLE 

Further  thrilling  adventures  of  Tarzan  while  seeking  his  wife 
in  Africa.  >~  ^ 

TARZAN  THE  UNTAMED 

;      Tells  of  Tarzan's  return  to  the  life  of  the  ape-man  in  seeking 
vengeance  for  the  loss  of  his  wife  and  home. 

JUNGLE  TALES  OF  TARZAN 

Records  the  many  wonderful  expl 
his  right  to  ape  kingship. 

AT  THE  EARTH'S  CORE 

An  astonishing  series  of  adventures  in  a  world  located  inside 
of  the  Earth.  ^ 

THE  MUCKER 

The  story  of  Billy  Byrne — as  extraordinary  a  character  as  the 
famous  Tarzan. 

A  PRINCESS  OF  MARS 

Forty-three  million  miles  from  the  earth — a  succession  of  the 
wierdest  and  most  astounding  adventures  in  fiction. 

THE  GODS  OF  MARS 

John  Carter's  adventures  on  Mara,  where  he  fights  the  fero 
cious  "plant  men,"  and  defies  Issus,  the  Goddess  of  Death. 

THE  WARLORD  OF  MARS 

Old  acquaintances,  made  in  two  other  stori*a  reappear,  Tars 
Tarkas,  Tardos  Mors  and  others. 

THUVIA,  MAID  OF  MARS 

The  story  centers  around  the  adventures  of  Carthoris,  the  son 
of  John  Carter  and  Thuvia,  daughter  of  a  Martian  Emperor. 

THE  CHESSMEN  OF  MARS 

>  The  adventures  of  Princess  Tara  in  the  land  of  headless  men, 
creatures  with  the  power  of  detaching  their  htads  from  their 
bodies  and  replacing  them  at  will. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,    PUBLISHERS,  NEW  YORK 


FLORENCE  L.  BARCLAY'S 
NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list. 


THE  WHITE  LADIES  OF  WORCESTER 

A  novel  of  the  12th  Century.  ,The  heroine,  believing  she 
had  lost  her  lover,  enters  a  convent.  He  returns,  and  in 
teresting  developments  follow. 

THE  UPAS  TREE 

A  love  story  of  rare  charm.  It  deala  with  a  successful 
author  and  his  wife. 

THROUGH  THE  POSTERN  GATE 

The  story  of  a  seven  day  courtship,  in  which  the  dis 
crepancy  in  ages  vanished  into  insignificance  before  the 
convincing  demonstration  of  abiding  love. 

THE  ROSARY 

The  story  of  a  young  artist  who  is  reputed  to  love  beauty 
above  all  else  in  the  world,  but  who,  when  blinded  through 
an  accident,  gains  life's  greatest  happiness.  A  rare  story 
of  the  great  passion  of  two  real  people  superbly  capable  of 
love,  its  sacrifices  and  its  exceeding  reward. 

THE  MISTRESS  OF  SHENSTONE 

The  lovely  young  Lady  Ingleby,  recently  widowed  by  the 
death  of  a  husband  who  never  understood  her,  meets  a  fine, 
clean  young  chap  who  is  ignorant  of  her  title  and  they  fall 
deeply  in  love  with  each  other.  When  he  learns  her  real 
identity  a  situation  of  singular  power  is  developed. 

THE  BROKEN  HALO 

The  story  of  a  young  man  whose  religious  belief  was 
shattered  in  childhood  and  restored  to  him  by  the  little 
white  lady,  many  years  older  than  himself ,  to  whom  he  is 
passionately  devoted. 

THE  FOLLOWING  OF  THE  STAR 

The  story  of  a  young  missionary,  who,  about  to  start  for 
Africa,  marries  wealthy  Diana  Rivers,  in  order  to  help  her 
fulfill  the  conditions  of  her  uncle's  will,  and  how  they  finally 
come  to  love  each  other  and  are  reunited  after  experiences 
that  soften  and  purify. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


ETHEL    M.    DELI/S    NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

CHARLES  REX 

The  struggle  against  a  hidden  secret  and  the  love  of  z 
strong  man  and  a  courageous  woman. 
THE  TOP  OF  THE  WORLD 

Tells  of  the  path  which  leads  at  last  to  the  "  top  of  the 
world,"  which  it  is  given  to  few  seekers  to  find. 
THE  LAMP  IN  THE  DESERT 

Tells  of  the  lamp  of  love  that  continues  to  shine  through 
all  sorts  of  tribulations  to  final  happiness. 
GREATHEART 

The  story  of  a  cripple  whose  deformed  body  conceals 
a  noble  soul. 
THE  HUNDREDTH  CHANCE 

A  hero  who  worked  to  win  even  when  there  was  only 
"  a  hundredth  chance." 
THE  SWINDLER 

The    story   of    a    "bad   man's"    soul    revealed    by  a 
woman' s    faith. 
THE  TIDAL  WAVE 

Tales  of  love  and  of  women  who  learned  to  know  the 
true  from  the  false. 
THE  SAFETY  CURTAIN 

A  very  vivid   love  story  of   India.     The  volume  also 
contains  four  other  long  stories  of  equal  interest. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


ELEANOR  H.  PORTER'S  NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  arc  sold.       Ask  for  Cresset  &  Darrtap's  list. 

JUST  DAVID 

The  tale  of  a  loveable  boy  and  the  place  he  comes  to 
nil  in  the  hearts  of  the  gruff  farmer  folk  to  whose  care  he 
is  left. 

THE  ROAD  TO  UNDERSTANDING 

A  compelling  romance  of  love  and  marriage. 
OH,  MONEY  !  MONEY  ! 

Stanley  Fulton,  a  wealthy  bachelor,  to  test  the  disposi 
tions  of  his  relatives,  sends  them  each  a  check  for  $100,* 
000,  and  then  as  plain  John  Smith  comes  among  them  to 
watch  the  result  of  his  experiment. 

SIX  STAR  RANCH 

A  wholesome  story  of  a  club  of  six  girls  and  their  sum 
mer  on  Six  Star  Ranch. 

DAWN 

The  story  of  a  blind  boy  whose  courage  leads  him 
through  the  gulf  of  despair  into  a  final  victory  gained  D)l 
dedicating  his  life  to  the  service  of  blind  soldiers. 

ACROSS  THE  YEARS 

Short  stories  of  our  own  kind  and  of  our  own  people 
Contains  some  of  the  best  writing  Mrs.  Porter  has  done, 

THE  TANGLED  THREADS 

In  these  stories  we  find  the  concentrated  charm  an/ 
tenderness  of  all  her  other  books. 

THE  TIE  THAT  BINDS 

Intensely  human  stories  told  with  Mrs.  Porter's  won' 
derfui  talent  for  warm  and  vivid  character  drawing. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


BOOTH     TARKINGTON'S 
NOVELS 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.     AskTTor  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

SEVENTEEN.    Illustrated  by  Arthur  William  Brown. 

No  one  but  the  creator  of  Penrod  could  have  portrayed 
the  immortal  young  people  of  this  story.  Its  humor  is  irre 
sistible  and  reminiscent  of  the  time  when  the  reader  was 
Seventeen. 

PENROD.    Illustrated  by  Gordon  Grant. 

This  is  a  picture  of  'a  boy's  heart,  full  of  the  lovable,  hu 
morous,  tragic  things  which  are  locked  secrets  to  most  older 
folks.  It  is  a  finished,  exquisite  work. 

PENROD  AND  SAM.  Illustrated  by  Worth  Brehm. 

Like  "  Penrod ".  and  "  Seventeen,"  this  book  contains 
some  remarkable  phases  of  real  boyhood  and  some  of  the  best 
stories  of  juvenile  prankishness  that  have  ever  been  written. 

THE  TURMOIL.    Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

Bibbs  Sheridan  is  a  dreamy,  imaginative  youth,  who  re 
volts  against  his  father's  plans  for  him  to  be  a  servitor  of 
big  business.  The  love  of  a  fine  girl  turns  Bibb's  life  from 
failure  to  success. 

THE  GENTLEMAN  FROM  INDIANA.    Frontispiece. 

A  story  of  love  and  politics, — more  especially  a  picture  of 
a  country  editor's  life  in  Indiana,  but  the  charm  of  the  book 
lies  in  the  love  interest. 

THE  FLIRT.    Illustrated  by  Clarence  F.  Underwood. 

The  "  Flirt,"  the  younger  of  two  sisters,  breaks  one  girl's 
engagement,  drives  one  man  to  suicide,  causes  the  murder 
of  another,  leads  another  to  lose  his  fortune,  and  in  the  end 
marries  a  stupid  and  unpromising  suitor,  leaving  the  really 
worthy  one  to  marry  her  sister. 

Aak  for  Complete  free  list  of  G.    &  D.    Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,        PUBLISHERS,         NEW  YORK 


KATHLEEN   NORRIS1  STORIES 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.        Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

SISTERS.  Frontispiece  by  Frank  Street 

The  California  Redwoods  furnish  the  background  for  this 
beautiful  story  of  sisterly  devotion  and  sacrifice. 

POOR,  DEAR.  MARGARET  KIRBY. 
Frontispiece  by  George  Gibbs. 

A  collection  of  delightful  stories,  including  "  Bridging  the 
Years  "  and  ' '  The  Tide-Marsh. ' '  This  story  is  now  shown  in 
moving  pictures. 

JQSSELYN'S  WIFE.  Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

The  story  of  a  beautiful  woman  who  fought  a  bitter  fight  fof 
happiness  and  love. 

MARTIE.  THE  UNCONQUERED. 
Illustrated  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 
The  triumph  of  a  dauntless  spirit  over  adverse  conditions. 

THE  HEART  OF  RACHAEL. 
Frontispiece  by  Charles  E.  Chambers. 

An  interesting  story  of  divorce  and  the  problems  that  come 
with  a  second  marriage. 

THE  STORY  OF  JULIA  PAGE. 

Frontispiece  by  C.  Allan  Gilbert. 

J^"A  sympathetic  portrayal  of  the  quest  of  a  normal  girl,  obscure 

and  lonely,  for  the  happiness  of  life. 

SATURDAY'S  CHILD.    Frontispiece  by  F.  Graham  Cootes. 

Can  a  girl,  born  in  rather  sordid  conditions,  lift  herself  through 
sheer  determination  to  the  better  things  for  which  her  soul 
hungered  ? 

1  MOTHER.    Illustrated  by  F.  C.  Yohn. 

A  story  of  the  big  mother  heart  that  beats  in  the  background 
of  every  girl's  life,  and  some  dreams  which  came  true. 

Ask  for  Complete  free  list  of  G.    6-  D.    Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,          PUBLISHERS,          NEW  YORK 


14  DAY  USE 

XN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall 


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LD  21A-50m-ll,'62 
(D3279slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


